Bad Connection

"Never underestimate the observational skills of a retiree with a garden and nothing better to do."

My body tensed, every muscle coiling as if ready to spring into action. The hairs on my arm bristled, and those on the back of my neck tingled with a foreboding I couldn't dismiss. I'd felt something—the familiar tingling sensation of a Portal activation, something that didn't belong in my house in the quiet of morning.

Was it merely coincidence? Or was there someone lurking within my home?

A week ago, I would have laughed at myself for the thought. Paranoid. Ridiculous. But a week ago, Duke had been alive. A week ago, I hadn't shoved anyone through a Portal against their will. Now, with Portal Keys and Pirate technology blurring the lines between friend and foe, the idea of an intruder wasn't paranoia—it was a plausible threat I should have been preparing for all along.

Anyone with a Portal Key could appear anywhere. Anyone who'd been watching could have followed me back without my knowledge. The sanctuary I'd taken for granted had become just another vulnerability in a life that seemed to be collecting them.

With a caution that felt more predator than prey, I poked my head into the hallway. The shadows seemed to dance at the edges of my vision, making the familiar feel suddenly foreign. Every corner held potential threat. Every silence carried the weight of what might be hiding within it.

"Hello?" My voice carried a tentative note I didn't like. It echoed slightly off the walls, and the silence that greeted me was almost more unnerving than any response could have been.

"Hey, Luke," came the unexpected voice of Beatrix.

A sigh of relief escaped me, so profound it seemed to uncoil every knot of tension that had wound itself through my body. I let my shoulders drop, feeling the adrenaline dissipate as quickly as it had surged. Just Beatrix.

In an almost subconscious move, I found a t-shirt and pulled it over my head.

"You're up early," I announced, stepping into the convergence of the kitchen and living areas. The space felt too quiet, the air holding a stillness that pressed against my skin. No click of claws on the floorboards. No warm body pressing against my legs, demanding attention.

Beatrix, looking more weary than I'd seen her in a long time, managed a yawn that seemed to embody exhaustion itself. "I didn't sleep very well," she confessed. "I've already taken more pain killers than I probably should, and my head is still pounding."

As she spoke, I found my hand drifting to my own left temple, mirroring her discomfort. "Tell me about it," I replied, suddenly aware of the growing ache in my own head that had gone unnoticed until now.

Beatrix moved to the fridge, pulling the door open with the particular energy of someone hoping to find salvation inside.

"Alcohol already?" I couldn't resist.

Beatrix shut the fridge with a definitive huff. "Fuck off. I'm not Gladys," she snapped, each word carrying enough bite to leave marks.

"Sorry," I said, the corners of my mouth betraying me as I fought back a smile. "There's muesli bars?" I offered, opening the pantry and retrieving an unopened box.

Beatrix's face scrunched with obvious displeasure. I couldn't hold back any longer; a soft chuckle escaped me. "They're choc-chip," I added.

"Hmm. Fine," she conceded, extending her hand with theatrical reluctance.

Ripping the box open, I tossed her several bars. She caught them with more coordination than I'd expected given her exhaustion, immediately tearing into the first wrapper.

"Thanks," she mumbled, already taking a bite.

I tore open my own bar, my stomach growling in response to the sight of food.

"Any plan for today?" Beatrix asked between mouthfuls, muesli muffling her words as she began to navigate through the living room.

"You're going to visit Grant Ironbach and bring him to Clivilius," I replied, the words coming out more brusquely than I intended.

Beatrix stopped and turned, her scowl deepening.

"It'll be good practice for you," I encouraged, attempting to smooth over the abruptness.

"People aren't my thing," she declared flatly.

"I already have to get Adrian," I replied, matching her bluntness.

"Who's Adrian?"

"He's a construction engineer. Runs his own company," I explained, feeling something almost like hope as I spoke of him. "He did the building inspection for this place when Jamie and I bought it. Nial is great with fences, but I think the group needs more... professional help." It was an admission I hadn't wanted to make—a concession that our makeshift solutions weren't enough, that the challenges we faced required expertise beyond what we currently possessed.

Beatrix bit into her muesli bar before responding. "I suspect you're right there."

"I'm going to arrange to meet with him at the Collinsvale property tomorrow morning," I continued, the strategy forming piece by piece in my mind.

Suddenly, a long, loud honk shattered the morning's peace, its abruptness startling in the quiet. Beatrix reacted instantly, her movements quick and sharp as she poked her head through the blinds to investigate, only to quickly withdraw.

"I wouldn't worry about it," I told her, trying to inject reassurance into my voice. "There's always hoons on that road."

Beatrix shook her head, her expression shifting from startled to certain. "No. I think the house is being watched."

The words landed with weight I couldn't dismiss. I rubbed my brow, fighting to remain calm while my mind raced through implications. We'd been careful—or I'd thought we'd been careful. But between Beatrix's trips with supplies, my increasingly erratic comings and goings, the strange hours we kept... had we been as invisible as I'd assumed?

"Did you recognise the person?" I asked, hoping for something concrete.

"No," she replied, still shaking her head. "It was too quick."

"Have another look then," I told her, gesturing towards the window.

Sliding her palm between the vertical blinds, Beatrix pulled one back slowly, her movements careful and measured as she peered out. "He's gone!" she hissed, letting the blind snap back into place.

"Gone?" I echoed, confusion threading through my voice. If the car had driven off, why was she still concerned? The small dirt pull-over across the road attracted all sorts of minor disturbances—it was hardly unusual to see something odd there.

"Yeah. He's not in the car anymore," she continued, her voice still a hiss, barely above a whisper. "We'd best get out of here for a while."

Before I could respond—before I could argue or question or even fully process what she'd said—Beatrix opened her Portal against the living room wall. The air rippled with that impossible swirl of colour. Then she stepped through without waiting for any reaction from me, leaving me standing alone in a room suddenly too quiet, too exposed.

The wall returned to its ordinary charcoal state, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. For a moment, silence. Just me, alone in the kitchen, the only evidence of Beatrix's departure the faint tingle in the air that always lingered after a Portal closed.

Then a loud knock at the front door.

"Shit!" I whispered, the sudden noise spiking my adrenaline into territory I hadn't visited since the shadow panthers. My fingers instinctively sought the Portal Key in my trouser pocket, the cool metal a lifeline—but a lifeline I couldn't use. Not now. There was no time to activate it. If whoever was at the door decided to peer through the windows, they'd spot me immediately, standing in my kitchen like a fool waiting to be caught.

Acting on impulse, I crouched behind the kitchen's island bench, pressing my back against the cabinets. The cover was minimal—pathetic, really—but it was all I had. From this position, I was acutely aware of every vulnerability: the windows, the angles of sight, the thin protection of furniture between me and whoever had come knocking. My heart thudded against my ribs, so loud I half-expected it to give me away.

My breathing deepened, each inhale and exhale more deliberate than the last, as questions raced through my mind. Who the hell is it? Is it someone I know? Am I in danger? The weight of the unknown pressed heavily upon me, paralysing and potent. Yet amidst the swirling tide of anxiety, a spark of curiosity flared—the need to know who had taken such an interest in my home, who had been watching us, who now stood at my door demanding entry.

Moments later, the sound of the wooden gate rattling shattered the silence. Not the front door opening—the side gate. The one that led to the backyard. Someone had jumped the fence.

Anger began to simmer within me, cutting through the fear. The audacity of it. The sheer brazenness. Whoever this was had decided that knocking unanswered gave them permission to trespass, to breach the boundaries of my property as if they had every right. My hands curled into fists against the kitchen floor.

Staying low, I moved into the hallway with the agility I'd been forced to develop over recent events. Each step was measured, silent, calculated to avoid the floorboards I knew would creak. My aim was clear: catch a glimpse of the intruder without revealing my presence. I peered briefly into the bathroom doorway, hoping for a vantage point, but the frosted glass thwarted any chance of a clear view, offering nothing but blurred shapes that could have been anything or nothing.

Pushing along the hallway, the suspense tightened its grip with every step. I could feel sweat beginning to gather at my temples, my pulse pounding in my ears. I reached the end, where the corridor branched—master bedroom to the right, small toilet and corner bedroom to the left. My heart hammered against my ribs, a drum of war echoing the tension that filled the air. Straining to hear any hint of movement, I was met with an unnerving silence that seemed designed to drive me mad.

Slowly, cautiously, I edged my gaze around the corner bedroom's doorframe, the need for stealth paramount.

And then I saw him.

A tall man standing outside the window, his presence casting a dark, ominous shadow across the venetian blinds. The sight of him—so unexpectedly close, separated by nothing but glass and thin slats of plastic—sent a jolt of pure shock through me. I gasped, the sound escaping before I could clamp down on the reaction, and yanked myself back into the shadows of the hallway.

My back pressed against the wall, chest heaving. The man's presence, a tangible threat just metres away, sent fresh adrenaline coursing through my veins. This was no mere curiosity. This was potentially grave danger. My mind raced through possibilities—police, Portal Pirate, someone connected to the people I'd kidnapped—each option just as bad as the last.

Deciding to capture any evidence of the intruder, I pulled out my phone and activated the camera. My hands, steady with intention, betrayed a slight tremor as I held the phone as low as possible, navigating its lens toward the doorway. Using the viewfinder as my eyes beyond the wall, I slid my finger across the screen toward the capture button—

"Who the hell are you?" The sudden gruff call of a man's voice from outside pierced the silence, startling me so badly I nearly bit my tongue.

My grip faltered. The phone slipped through my sweaty fingers, crashing to the floor with a sound that seemed catastrophically loud in the stillness.

"Shit!" I hissed, slamming myself onto the carpet. Retrieving the phone, I cradled it close, holding my breath, hoping desperately that my clumsy movement had gone unnoticed.

A moment of silence, thick with anticipation. Then the intruder spoke, his voice carrying through the still air.

"I'm Karl Jenkins. Detective Karl Jenkins."

Shit!

The word exploded through my mind, bringing with it a cascade of implications. A detective. A fucking detective sneaking around my backyard. Why? Was this a routine investigation, or had our activities attracted exactly the kind of attention we couldn't afford?

Realising there were two voices outside, I pressed my back against the closed toilet door in a desperate bid for concealment. The cool wood offered no comfort.

"And who are you?" the detective inquired, his tone authoritative yet tinged with curiosity.

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry to have interrupted you," the other man replied, his voice carrying apologetic formality. "I'm Terry. I live across the street."

So that's what the old guy actually sounds like. I'd seen him countless times, tending to his front garden with quiet dedication, but we'd never directly spoken. Our interactions had been limited to distant nods, the bare minimum of neighbourly acknowledgment. He was just part of the scenery—or so I'd assumed.

Eager to hear more, to understand the dynamics unfolding outside my hideaway, I edged my head closer to the doorway. Every snippet of conversation could offer insight into how deep this trouble ran.

"I am looking for Luke Smith or Jamie Greyson," Karl's voice carried a professional edge. "Have you seen either of them?"

Good question. My heart rate accelerated, pulse throbbing at my temples. Saliva caught in my throat as I processed the implications. Was Terry—the seemingly innocuous neighbour—actually an overlooked liability for our Clivilius efforts?

"Not in the last few days," Terry's response came, his voice carrying a casualness that belied the gravity of the conversation.

A moment of relief washed over me, fleeting and fragile. Perhaps Terry wasn't as observant as I'd feared. Perhaps he'd simply failed to notice the strange hours, the comings and goings, the—

"But their friend has been here a lot recently. She's made a few trips here in a small truck," Terry continued.

Fuck!

Any relief shattered instantly. Terry's observation skills were evidently neither lacking nor inclined towards neighbourly discretion. He'd been watching. Cataloguing. Waiting, perhaps, for exactly this moment.

"A small truck," Karl repeated, suspicion evident in his tone. "How odd. Do you have any idea what for? Are they moving?"

"Not sure. I don't think so. I think she's been making deliveries of some kind. I've not noticed anything leaving the house," Terry replied, his observations painting a picture of our activities I'd never intended anyone to see—least of all police.

"Very odd indeed. Well, do call me if you see anything else, sir," Karl instructed, professional veneer firmly in place.

"Of course," Terry replied with a promptness that felt like betrayal. "I'll make sure you're the first person I call."

Shit!

The realisation crashed over me with the force of a wave breaking: We definitely have to start using the Collinsvale property now. My house has been compromised. The safety of our operations, once a given within these walls, was now a gaping vulnerability. Every future trip, every delivery, every Portal activation—all of it had to happen elsewhere. Terry would be watching. Terry would be calling his new friend the detective the moment anything caught his attention.

"Brilliant!" The word came from Karl, its tone ambiguous—sarcasm or genuine satisfaction, impossible to tell.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Terry's voice signalled retreat.

"Terry," Karl called out, stopping him before he could escape back to his garden and his watching. "Yes?"

"Have you seen anyone else around here? Last night or this morning?"

The question was pointed, probing. My muscles tensed further, if that was possible. Had anyone seen Beatrix arrive? Had anyone noticed her Portal, or mine?

"No, sir. Only you," Terry replied, straightforward and seemingly innocuous.

A thick, heavy silence enveloped the space again, the tension so dense I could almost taste it. Only my heart's constant pounding broke the stillness, a relentless drumbeat echoing the fear and uncertainty coursing through me.

Was Terry's interruption enough to make the detective leave?

Unable to muster the courage for even a fleeting glance around the doorframe, I once again turned to my phone's camera. The digital eye became my proxy, a way to brave the world outside without exposing myself to direct observation.

A soft, metallic scraping sound abruptly shattered the silence, snapping my attention upward. It was quickly followed by the loud clatter of the bedroom window's fly-screen crashing to the concrete below—a sound of intrusion, of boundaries being violated.

"Shit!" from the detective outside.

"Shit!" from me, barely a whisper.

Without hesitation, I leapt into action, propelling myself into the hallway and scrambling toward the kitchen. I can't afford to get caught now. Especially not by a detective! The stakes were too high, the consequences too dire. Everything I'd built, everyone I'd brought to Clivilius, the settlement itself—all of it would collapse if I was arrested, if I was questioned, if I couldn't get back.

Returning my phone to my pocket, I fumbled frantically to retrieve the Portal Key. My fingers, slick with sweat and trembling, slid across its small button. I pressed it. Nothing. Pressed it again. Nothing.

"For fuck's sake! Why aren't you working?" I growled at the stubborn device, panic rising in my throat. Each failed attempt sent fresh desperation crashing through me.

The sound of shattering glass from the bedroom window reverberated down the hallway, a chilling announcement of escalation.

This detective is insane!

He'd broken the window. He'd actually broken my window to get inside. What kind of detective smashed his way into someone's home?

I bolted onto the small landing and clambered down the stairs, feet barely touching each step in my haste. The downstairs room materialised around me—and immediately I realised my mistake.

"Shit! I'm an idiot!" The self-rebuke came as I looked around frantically, taking in the limited space. "Where the fuck am I supposed to go down here?"

The small dark cupboard under the stairs caught my eye, but I dismissed it instantly. Taking that option would be my final move. There'd be no escape from such a confined space—I'd be trapped, cornered, caught.

The large glass sliding door leading to the backyard beckoned, obvious and dangerous in equal measure. With a surge of determination, I reached for the deadbolt at the top, yanking it down with such force that I felt the tip of my fingernail bend backward against the metal.

"Fuck!" The hiss escaped through clenched teeth. I shook my hand fiercely, trying to dispel the sharp sting. A quick glance confirmed the nail remained intact—small mercy in a morning comprised entirely of disasters.

Unlocking the second latch, I pulled the heavy door open. Cool morning air rushed in, fresh and clean, briefly caressing my face with something almost like comfort. I stood in the doorway, caught between urgency and hesitation—

The roar of a car engine shattered the moment, followed by the screech of tyres on gravel.

Was that the detective?

Instinct took over. I darted from the doorway, sprinting across the grass, my back slamming against the rear fence with enough force to rattle the aging wood. Desperate to catch a glimpse of the departing vehicle, I stretched up, peering over the tall palings.

My foot kicked against the fence involuntarily as I watched the silhouette of a dark car disappear in a cloud of dust.

Bugger!

I knew it hadn't been an official police car—the departure was too hurried, too lacking in the usual ceremony of law enforcement. But I hadn't gotten a clear view. Hadn't caught the make or model or registration. Just a dark shape vanishing down the road, leaving questions and dust in its wake.

Exhaling loudly, I allowed myself a moment to process. There was relief, however temporary, in the realisation that today would not be the day I came face to face with the law—a law I seemed unable to keep from breaking.

But it's not my fault, I reminded myself, the familiar justification rising to the surface. It's for Clivilius.

The words felt thinner than they once had. But I clung to them anyway.

After confirming that Detective Jenkins had actually vacated the premises—circling the house, checking windows, making absolutely certain no one lurked in waiting—I stood in the corner bedroom and surveyed the damage.

The window was destroyed. Shattered glass lay scattered across the carpet, catching the morning light in a way that might have been beautiful under different circumstances. The fly-screen lay crumpled on the concrete outside. A detective had broken into my home, had violated my sanctuary, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

I pulled the bedroom door closed behind me, leaving the mess where it lay. Cleaning up seemed pointless. The house was compromised—had been compromised the moment Terry started watching, started cataloguing, started waiting for someone official to ask the right questions.

In the study, I aimed the Portal Key at the far wall. I pressed the button once. Twice. Several times, each press a desperate plea.

Nothing.

"Shit!" The exclamation burst from me, frustration and fear combining into something close to desperation. My temples throbbed, the headache that had been building all morning now pounding in earnest.

"Why the hell won't you work? Clivilius, what the fuck is going on?"

My voice filled the empty room, laced with confusion and something approaching panic. The Portal Key—my lifeline, my escape route, my connection to everything I'd built—sat dead and useless in my palm.

And I had no idea why.