Sam sat in the uncomfortable silence of the elevator.  Mr. Bartlett was standing beside her slightly smiling and occasionally glancing at her, but he had not said a word since they got on the elevator.  She looked down at her bag, thinking of the odd talisman he had given her all those years ago, when she thought the world was safe.  Three unlikely heroes had saved her life four years ago, and then in a year, they were gone, with the exception of Eddie, of course. 

She still kept in touch with Eddie at the Institute, but she had no clue what happened to the charmer, Brockly.  He just took off after a dispute with Breaburn, and she never saw him since.

After Mr. Bartlett had found her a job at the Institute, he then shortly disappeared without a trace, disappearing from her life completely without an explanation.  Apparently he was building a restaurant all this time. 

She had always regretted the nights she spent with Mr. Bartlett in the past.  She wanted to save herself for when she got married, but when she was around him, she couldn’t help herself but want to be with him.  He had taken her around the world, teaching her to fight, teaching her how to kill.  She had spent nights with him tucked away in a warm bed on sandy beaches and frozen mountain tops.  Sam had regretted everything when he left, but when she was near him now, she didn’t regret a thing.  She had so many questions to ask him, but she couldn’t think of where to start.  Mr. Bartlett was so mysterious she hardly knew anything about him, and yet, she couldn’t stop thinking of him all these years. 

She glanced up at the small glass panel in the corner of the elevator.  They had just passed the third floor and were moving to the fourth.  The elevator soon stopped and the doors opened up. 

In front of Sam was a large glass window that encompassed two walls of the room. 

Mr. Bartlett stepped off the elevator loosening his tie.  He looked back at Sam who was still looking out the great window, “Close your mouth, you’re drooling.” 

Sam snapped out of her reverie and looked at Mr. Bartlett.  She wiped her mouth looking down at her dry sleeve. 

Mr. Bartlett smiled and turned to his desk in the only corner of the room not encompassed in glass. “I was joking you know.” 

Sam turned, looking around as she did so.  She stepped up to the glass window, looking down upon the patrons of the restaurant far below.  She turned and looked at Mr. Bartlett who was pouring himself a drink on his large desk. 

He walked around the desk, leaning his cane on the side of it.  He entered a small closet behind his desk, flipping on the light inside the room.   

He pulled off his tie and coat, placing them neatly on a small shelf.  He reached up to a rack full of similar coats and ties, and pulled off a new pair, and put them on.  Mr. Bartlett shut the light to the small room off and took a seat. 

He pointed to the glass he just poured, “Would you like some?  It’s twenty year old scotch, good stuff, but expensive.” 

Sam looked at the glass and took a sip.  Whether it was the spirits or she just couldn’t hold it in any longer, she asked the question that burned in her mind all these years. “Is this what you’ve been up to while you’ve been gone?”  She looked around the room.  Small antiques of tribal masks and crafted jewels sat all around on pedestals, covered in glass.  She shied away, feeling embarrassed at her bluntness she changed the subject.  “Quite impressive I have to say?”  She took another sip and set the glass down.

Mr. Bartlett leaned back in his chair, admiring Sam, “Yes, it’s quite impressive,” a slight smile came upon his face, “But not as impressive as you.” 

Sam blushed a little and turned away to a small section of the wall not made of glass.  A few photographs hung in a neat fashion.  Sam walked over to them and looked the pictures over.  They were yellowed and faded; most of them seemed to be taken in a jungle.  She stopped at one of Mr. Bartlett holding a little girl in his arms.  Several men with grass skirts and bone jewelry surrounded him, smiling at the camera.  Their faces were painted and exotic feathers of blue, yellow, purple, decorated their heads.

Sam’s eyes furrowed, “Is this you?” 

Mr. Bartlett nodded, “Yes, that is an old photo of me.” 

A feeling in Sam’s gut told her not to ask the next question, but she did anyway, “Is this your daughter?” 

Mr. Bartlett looked away for a second, sitting in silence.  Sam felt uncomfortable for asking a personal question to the man. 

After a moment, he spoke, “That was my daughter.  She is not with us today.” 

Sam turned away, “I’m sorry.” 

Mr. Bartlett quickly cut her off, “It’s not your fault.  It’s mine.  Don’t be sorry.” 

Sam felt sorry for the man.  Losing a child should be something no one should have to deal with.  This was the first time he had opened up to her since she had known him, and she wished it would have been a happier affair than this. 

“May I ask what happened?”  She took the photo down and examined it closely, “This picture seems too old to be of you though.” 

Mr. Bartlett let out a small cough and took a sip of the drink Sam had set down, “There are many things you don’t know about me, Sam, things that should probably stay hidden from the world.” 

Mr. Bartlett stood and walked over to Sam, “This picture was taken in nineteen twenty-two.”  He took the picture from Sam and hung it back on the wall.  He stared for a moment, wiping his one good eye.  “The institute was young back then, only a few members here or there.”  He walked back over to his desk, finishing off the drink, “I was one of them.  I was young back then.” 

Sam frowned in confusion, “You were alive back then?” 

Mr. Bartlett nodded and poured some more scotch into his glass, “Quite so.  You know a man one hundred and nineteen years old.”

Sam slowly nodded.  She wasn’t sure if he was lying, but then again, she had seen stranger things in her life.

“I was sent down to Haiti by the Institute, to investigate a case that had come up.  Some shamans had brought over some old magic from Africa, when they were transported as slaves.  They passed down the magic through the generations of Haitian people.” 

Mr. Bartlett took a seat at his desk again, gesturing Sam to take a seat in the chair in front of the desk.  She walked over slowly, clutching her bag tight, not knowing where the story would go.  She took a seat, placing the bag in her lap as she did so. 

“They passed down the old magic to their children and so on.  Down to the very shamans I was supposed to investigate.  I brought my daughter along with me because her mother had died shortly before.  I couldn’t bear to leave her alone.” 

Mr. Bartlett looked over at his cane, “At this time, America had occupied Haiti and they were not kind to the Haitian people.  The Haitians were suppressed and not given liberty of their own island.  Christianity was also sweeping the nation, calling their old voodoo religion satanic.  So, to free their people from any more overlords, the last of the shaman’s bloodline had used a powerful spell to summon an old powerful spirit, to free the Haitians from any more foreign invaders.” 

Mr. Bartlett then looked at Sam, “The spirit went on a bloodthirsty rampage.  It murdered hundreds of innocent Americans, but that was nothing compared to the damage the spirit had dealt to the natives.  Thousands of Haitians were murdered as well.  Women, children, the spirit didn’t care what it killed.  Even the shamans that summoned it were killed on the spot.  The spirit killed many people, including my daughter.”  Mr. Bartlett paused for a moment and turned away.  He composed himself and turned back to Sam. “I was out of town researching the origins of the ancient spirit when it came to the town I was staying in.  My daughter was being watched by my neighbors and their kids when it swept into town, slaughtering everyone.  I was torn apart when I found out it took her.  She was my world, my everything, and she was taken away in an instant.  I became bent on revenge, so much that it clouded my judgment.  I rushed out into the jungle after it and it trapped me.  I thought it was going to kill me like all the rest.” 

Mr. Bartlett stood up and walked over to a small glass case holding a painted voodoo mask from the ancient civilization, “The spirit surprised me with an offer.  It said I could either let it possess me, or I could die right there.  My head was clouded by the death of my daughter.  I couldn’t die and let her death go un-avenged, so I let the spirit possess me, in hopes that I could then take my own life, ending the evil once and for all.” 

Mr. Bartlett stared off into the air, “Some say the Institute’s Boss picks the perfect person for the job.  I wonder if he knew this would happen to me.”

Sam too thought of the mysterious Boss.  He had total control of the institute, yet no one had ever seen him.  On some of her past missions, she had been just lucky enough to escape certain death.  Maybe it wasn’t luck after all.  Maybe the Boss knew she had the certain skills to make it out alive, and that’s why he sent her on those missions.

Mr. Bartlett snapped from his thoughts and turned back to Sam, continuing his story.

Mr. Bartlett reached up and adjusted his eye patch, “But it was soon a part of me.  The spirit didn’t tell me what would happen, and before I knew it, it ripped my eye from its socket.  The spirit flowed into my body through the empty eye socket, and it resides here even today.”  He turned back to Sam, “That talisman on your axe was one of its artifacts. It allows the wearer to kill anything.” 

Sam had always wondered why Mr. Bartlett was so secretive. She had never expected anything this big.  Then she thought of the talisman he had given her, “It can kill anything?” 

Mr. Bartlett answered her thoughts, “Don’t worry, I already tried.  It doesn’t work on me.” 

Sam looked back at the picture on the wall; his daughter must have been about eight years old.  She stood and walked over to him, “I’m sorry for your loss. I really am.” 

Mr. Bartlett smiled, “Thank you, and don’t worry, the spirit is under my control as long as I give it earthly pleasures, hence the restaurant.  It’s quite greedy.” 

Sam smiled at Mr. Bartlett.  He always knew when to lighten the mood.  She looked up into his green eye.  She leaned forward, moving her face close to his.  She was about to kiss the man she had lost so long ago.  Then the phone on the desk rang. 

Sam leaned back and rubbed her arm, her face blushing. “You better get that.” 

Mr. Bartlett nodded and smiled as he picked up his phone. 

Sam looked around at all the little Mayan statues and voodoo artifacts that sat around in Mr. Bartlett’s office. 

Mr. Bartlett talked in the background with a series of short answers, “Yes, thank you Scott, and bring her up.” 

Sam turned to Mr. Bartlett. “Is that Starr?  Is she alright?” 

Mr. Bartlett hung up the phone. “Yes, she is fine.  Scott has given her some new clothes and something to eat in the kitchen, made special by our head chef.” 

Sam nodded and sighed.  She hadn’t seen Starr for a good amount of time.  The mysterious girl had saved her life with some sort of flash down at the docks.  No one had dared talk about it before, not knowing what would happen to Starr.  The group of agents agreed not to share this detail until they knew they could trust the contact at the restaurant.

Now that Sam was alone with Mr. Bartlett she might be able to find out some information he hadn’t related before, “Is there something you aren’t telling me about Starr?” 

Mr. Bartlett paused for a second; he looked around the room and checked his watch.  Sam was puzzled why he did so. 

“Yes,” he bluntly answered her question. 

“What is it then?” 

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