The Haunting (S1E9):              Missing Scenes

Disclaimer:  I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein.  I receive no compensation or any other tangible benefit from this story.  I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then.  🙂

*****

Nicholas pulled up to the beach house where Max’s character, Mister Eisenhower, was supposed to be staying during his time in Hawaii. He stopped long enough for Max and Grant to exit the vehicle.

“I’ll be parked up there,” Nicholas advised, nodding toward a nearby scenic overlook, “keeping watch. As soon as Foster leaves, I’ll come back and get you.”

“Right, buddy,” Max acknowledged as he slammed the car door, and he and Grant began walking towards the front door as the black sedan sped away.

“Does my makeup look okay?” Grant asked, pointing towards his left temple, which was decorated maroon-red in the shape of a large bruise.

“It looks fine, Grant,” Max answered. Then he grinned. “Of course, if you’re worried about it, I can always give you the real thing,” he said teasingly.

“If you think you’re man enough,” responded Grant, returning both the grin and the challenge.

The two agents entered the small room, where Max’s eyes fell on a large mirror hanging from the wall across from the entrance. Suddenly, he had an idea.

“Hey, Grant,” he said excitedly, “maybe we can use this. Make it look like I rammed your head into it.”

“You sure you want to do that?” Grant asked skeptically. “Because if you break it, it’s seven years’ bad luck.”

“Not breaking it, just cracking it,” Max clarified. “And besides, I’m not superstitious.”

“Since when?” Grant scoffed, but Max ignored him. “And what are you going to crack it with?” he questioned, adding, “Because my head is not volunteering.”

Before Grant knew what was happening, Max drew back his fist and punched the mirror with moderate force – enough to create the desired cracking effect, but not enough to shatter it.

“Max!” Grant yelled. “Why the hell did you do that?”  He reached for the impulsive agent’s right hand in order to examine it.

“It’s fine,” Max assured him, trying to extract it from his friend’s grasp.

“Shut up, Max,” Grant muttered, concern disguised as irritation, as he gripped tighter and looked closer. Max’s skin was red and riddled with pinpricks where the glass had pierced it. But overall, it didn’t look so bad, Grant realized, and he let go.

“See, I told you. Who’s going to believe I was in a fight if I don’t have at least one battle scar?”  Max pointed his finger at the place where his fist had been a moment earlier.

“Put some of that fake blood right here,” he ordered, and Grant obliged. By the time he had finished, Max was standing near a small dining room table.

“Here’s a good place for you,” he suggested.

“And where are you going to be?”  Grant asked, as he crouched down to deposit a copious amount of fake blood on the carpet beneath him.

Max walked over to a tall cabinet and opened the double doors.  He reached in and pulled out a rather large can of tuna.  He peeled back the self-opening tab and threw it away, then pulled out a nearby drawer and took out a fork.

“Are you going to eat that?”  Grant wrinkled his nose as he lay down on his stomach and turned his head toward the left, centering his right temple against the fake bloodstain.  “I can smell it all the way down here.”

“It’s pure protein, Grant.  It’s good for you,” Max needled, as he jumped up onto the table and sat down, planting the soles of his feet on the flat surface and drawing his knees up to his chest.  He looked down at his friend.  “You look like you’ve been posed.  Maybe loosen up a little bit.”

Grant moved his feet until they were slightly askew.

“That’s better.”

“Everybody’s a critic,” Grant muttered.

“Look who’s talking,” Max returned.  Then he heard the telltale sound of a vehicle approaching at a moderate clip.  “Showtime,” he said quietly.  “He’s here.”

*****

The white beach house door opened slowly, and Champ Foster emerged from the other side of it.  As he closed it behind him, the first thing that caught his attention was a full-length mirror mounted on the wall.  There was a fist-sized bloodstain atop several cracks in the glass and dripping downward.  Mister Eisenhower – or, whatever his name was – was sitting on top of a small dining room table, his back turned toward the mirror.

As Foster turned his head to the left and downward, he saw the familiar prone figure of a young Black man, lying on his stomach with his head turned toward the left.  A finger-sized bruise adorned his left temple, and a large red bloodstain soaked the carpet where his head was resting.

Max, knees drawn to his chest and casually eating tuna right out of the can, scowled at Foster from atop the table a couple of feet from Grant.  The Commodore walked closer to the scene.

“Plenty to eat, man, if you’re hungry,” Max offered, turning his attention back to his can of tuna as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“The prince’s chauffeur,” Foster observed.

“Yeah,” Max acknowledged.  “He told me that.  Said the cops had got him into the limo service, so he could keep an eye on you.”

“What else did he tell you?”  Foster asked, bending slightly to peer closer at Grant’s prostrate form.

“Oh, a lot of things, man,” Max replied, as he hopped up from his perch.  Can’t have Foster realizing that Grant isn’t dead after all, he thought.  “First, he wouldn’t say anything,” he continued, purposely stepping over Grant’s head.  “Real stone wall.  After I broke a couple of his ribs, I got his attention.”

Max stopped within six inches of Foster, an air of arrogance in his voice and posture.  He chuckled and slapped Foster’s left shoulder forcefully with his right hand as he walked toward the mirror.

“Had to grab him by the hair,” the blond agent continued, as Foster turned and took two steps toward him.  “Man, I told him, ‘My name’s Hitler, man.’”  Max gingerly picked out a bloody piece of glass from the cracked mirror and stared at it.  “’Maybe you heard of me?  Adolf?’”  There was a crazed look in Max’s eyes momentarily as they locked with Foster’s.  “’Real bad guy, Hitler.  And your face is Poland, and I’m gonna march all over it.’”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a drink,” Foster said anxiously, clearly rattled by Max’s ramblings.

“Hey, man, I gotta tell you,” Max answered, walking toward his guest, “from one friend to another – that stuff’s poison.  You know, your body is a temple.”

Max shoved the empty can of tuna and fork into Foster’s hands, then he walked over to a nearby sink.

“What else did he tell you?” the Commodore demanded, following, still holding the empty can of tuna in his hand.

“Just that the cop from San Diego is here, too,” Max responded, as he opened up a tube of toothpaste and squeezed some out onto a toothbrush, “going over all the Honolulu PD stuff on the princess’s disappearance.”

Foster stared at Max for a moment, then turned his head to look once again at the “dead” chauffeur.  Max brushed his teeth vigorously for a few seconds, then turned toward his companion.  “Hey, man.”  When the Commodore turned back toward the blond, he continued.  “Nice night for a séance, huh?”

Foster continued to look uncertainly in Max’s direction, then turned toward the door, setting the empty can of tuna on a nearby counter with a thud.  “I’m outta here,” he grunted.

“See you tonight!”  Max called cheerily behind him, getting only the slam of the front door as a response.

Grant waited until he heard Foster’s car speed away before opening his eyes.  By that time, Max was standing over him, holding a towel in one hand.  He reached the other hand toward his friend, who grabbed it and allowed Max to help him to his feet.  He then took the towel and began to wipe away the fake blood from the right side of his face.

“You are deeply disturbed, man, you know that?”  Grant jibed, trying to stifle a grin.

“As long as Foster thinks so,” Max grinned.  “Gotta act the part.”

“Who said anything about acting?”  Grant teased.

Max laughed heartily as he threw an arm around Grant and thumped his shoulder fondly.  “Let’s get out of here.”

A moment later, Nicholas arrived and picked up his two teammates.  Together, the three men headed back to headquarters to prepare for the evening’s séance.

The End.

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