by Josie Brown
Before you ask, let me assure you that a “natural talent” does include your innate ability to
- Find your way through a city you’ve never before visited
- Make the Vulcan salute
- Be double-jointed
-Do that little thing with your tongue that drove your high school boyfriend to distraction.
I tap twice on Evan’s bedroom door.
No response, so I tap harder.
Still nothing.
Time’s a wasting, so I look in:
The bed is empty.
Hmmmm.
I walk down the hall to the other bedrooms. I come to Jeff’s room first. The door is unlocked. I open it a crack, to see him sound asleep. He lies on his back. Because he runs hot, he’s tossed off all his bedding. Silently, I close the door.
I don’t have to pause beside the guest room, where Aunt Phyllis sleeps. Her snores rock the walls, so I know Evan is not in there with her, enjoying an early morning chat.
Like Jeff’s door, Trisha’s is unlocked. I sneak a peek. My angel child sleeps with a smile on her lips.
Besides the master suite, that leaves one other door: Mary’s.
It’s locked.
No problem. I slip into my bedroom, where, in a secret compartment in my vanity table, I’ve hidden a lockpick set. I pull out the one I think works best.
Okay, yeah, maybe I already know which ones open specific doors in our house. I never claimed to be Houdini.
I walk back to Mary’s door and debate if I should knock.
Of course, I knock—really softly.
And then I open the door really quickly.
Mary sits up abruptly. She holds her blanket next to her neck, as if she’s Little Red Riding Hood and I’m the Big Bad Wolf.
Nope. He is that large lump in the bed beside her.
To hide my anger, I force my lips into a smile and sweetly exclaim, “Good morning, dear! Glad to see that you’re already…up!”
The word sticks in my throat. I didn’t mean it as a double entendré, but Mary must have taken it that way. Her face turns the color of an overripe beefsteak tomato.
“I’m making pancakes downstairs. Care to join us?” As I flop down on the lumpy side of her bed, the lump gives a yelp—
Which Mary tries to cover up by launching into a coughing jag. When she finishes this Academy Award-winning performance, she, adds, “I’m…not feeling too well.”
“Gee, I hope you’re not coming down with something contagious!” I reach over to feel her forehead with one hand—
While yanking back the cover with the other.
The bad news: I now know Evan’s whereabouts.
The good news: he and Mary are still dressed.
Sort of.
That is, if his boxer briefs and her thong panties and a midriff-cut teeshirt count as clothing.
He doesn’t have to be asked to get out of my daughter’s bed. His leap would give Superman’s speeding bullet trajectory a run for its money.
“Mom, please‚ it’s not what it looks like!” Mary’s plaintive plea demands that I believe her as opposed to what I see with my own eyes.
I scan her face, then his, then back to her again. “Convince me.”
The fact that they’re both chattering at the same time makes it difficult to hear either clearly. What I make out is Mary saying “—finally wanted to hear about…about the girl in the selfie—“
“I already told you! She’s not just—just some girl! She’s also my Poli-Sci project partner—”
“Okay! Whatever! Your ‘PROJECT PARTNER’.” Mary further emphasizes his remark with air quotes. “Who dares to laugh at me—”
“You’re twisting my words!” Evan exclaims. “That’s not what I said at all!”
“You didn’t have to! I knew what you meant!”
“Why do you think you can read my mind?” Angrily, he raises both hands skyward. “See? This is what I’m talking about! You’re…you’re…”
“You mean when you called me, hot-headed—like my mother?” Mary points at me “Do you know how…how hurtful that is?”
“Ha! Well, I’m glad you heard at least one thing I’ve said these past eight hours—”
“Evan compared you to me?” For some reason, I’m actually flattered—
Wait…what? He said I’m…
HOT-HEADED?
Noting the look on my face, Mary and Evan’s mouths shut in unison.
At that moment I remember I’m still holding the lockpick: tiny, but functional as a weapon.
Evan’s eyes shift to the window. Would a drop from the second story kill him any quicker than a jab with something tiny and sharp to his chest?
Probably not.
But, hey, I’m a reasonable person. “Evan Martin, give me one reason to let you walk out of here without the need to reach an emergency room before you bleed out.” He can’t read my mind, but there’s enough light filtering through Mary’s window to allow me to admire the pick.
“Um…because…” Finally, he stutters, “Hey, I was only quoting Jack!”
Seeing my frown, it dawns on Evan that he’s failed the test.
Just at that moment, Jack’s head pops through the door. “Hey, does anyone else want pancakes before we go?”
I smile as I pocket the pick. “Nope, sorry, Jack! Evan doesn’t have time for hot-heads. Oops! I meant hot-cakes.” I point to Evan. “You’re coming with us—now.”
Is it cruel of me to take him on an empty stomach and keep him in the dark as to where we’re going? Nah. He’ll learn soon enough.
In the meantime, I’m keeping the lockpick handy.
“Donna, on the record: last night Mary and I didn’t…we didn’t…” Evan’s voice dies off.
Evan, Jack, Arnie, and I are almost at BlackTech. Jack is driving, I’m sitting shotgun, while Evan and Arnie sit in the back seat.
The drive hasn’t been easy. With all the detours caused by gas pipe fires between Hilldale and Irvine, what used to be a half-hour trip has taken us over two hours. We anticipate we’ll face similar traffic on the way home.
During the ride, I haven’t said a word. Not about Evan and Mary’s sleeping arrangements. Not about our trek to BlackTech. Certainly not about my anger and hurt that my trust has been violated.
Not that I’d get a word in edgewise while Jack and Arnie filled Evan in on what they’ll need to take off his company’s database: anything that explains Operation Horoscope, every bit of code that might have gone into it; even Jonathan’s correspondence files.
I left my visor down to watch Evan’s reactions. He listened, stone-faced. But apparently, his mind was somewhere else.
My guess: still in Mary’s bedroom.
To find out if I’m right, I turn around to stare at him. “So, I catch you and my daughter in her bed—both in your underwear—and you insist nothing happened? Truly refreshing! Tell me something Evan: Why not?”
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” he stutters.
“What I mean is that you’re a couple of hot and horny-for-each-other teenagers. The whole night you lie side by side, practically naked. So”—I take a deep breath—“Why not?”
“Well…because…” Evan looks down into his lap. “I said no.”
“You said no?”
Is he implying that Mary was ready, willing, and able?
The blood leaves his face. He’s reading my mind.
Arnie’s eyes grow big. This is one soap opera he’d prefer to tune out.
“I don’t think now is the time for family drama,” Jack interjects.
“You’re right,” I say sweetly. “No need for anyone to get hot-headed.”
“That’s quickly becoming your new favorite term,” Jack retorts.
“No, it’s Evan’s.” I swing around to face Jack. “Seems he learned it from you.”
Jack winces when he sees my eyes narrow.
Arnie is sweating bullets, like a child who hates it when his parents argue. A
nxiously, he points to the BlackTech’s block-long campus. “Hey, folks—look! We’re here!”
Jack swings the car into the driveway and up to the security gate.
As far as I’m concerned, Evan is off the hook—for now.
As for Mary? She and I will have an interesting conversation when I get home.
“Evan! So great to see you!” Tina Cuthbert, Jonathan’s assistant, meets us in the lobby. She wraps Evan in a motherly hug and then extends her hand to Jack, Arnie, and me. “What brings you here on this beautiful Sunday?”
Already coached by Jack, Evan keeps the conversation short and bittersweet: “I came as soon as I heard about Jonathan’s death. You know, he was a very dear friend of my dad’s—his first hire, in fact. BlackTech would not have existed without him.”
“He was the company’s heart and soul.” Tina’s face crumples with grief. “He’s irreplaceable.”
“I know. But I’ll do my best to find someone who can fill his shoes.” Evan waits for her to wipe away a tear then adds, “Tina, we’d like to be shown to Jonathan’s office.”
She nods sadly. “Understandable.” She shifts uncomfortably on her feet. “As always, he locked it when he went out to lunch. No one’s been in it since. Not that we could enter it in any event. His office security needs image recognition.”
“Or mine,” Evan reminds her.
Tina’s curious gaze roams over our bland faces. “Gotcha. Do you remember the way?”
Evan nods. “Engineering building, top floor, last office on the west-facing side.”
“By the way. The memorial service for Jonathan is next Friday, at two o’clock. If you’re in town, I’ll send you the details.”
He nods. “I’d like that.”
So will Ryan. Jack and I will accompany him. It might be worth having an Acme drone flit about, honing in on the faces of the attendees. Odds are his killers are long gone and won’t show. But hey, you never know.
Tina waves us off without any suggestion of accompanying us. I guess Jonathan’s penchant for secrecy is reason enough not to ask questions.
Jonathan’s office is on the other side of a metal wall at the end of a large office pit. Because it’s a Sunday, there are only a few engineers at their stations. Their eyes are fixated on their large screens as their fingers roam their keyboards like frenzied jazz pianists.
Evan’s eye and hand scans unlock its single metal door.
We step inside to discover that all four walls are metal. There is only one narrow window, but its shade is also a metal panel that can be raised with the push of a button.
The room—a vault, really—is as austere as a monk’s sanctuary. The metal desk is a solid cube except for a single cutout to accommodate the legs of the person sitting in the desk’s chair.
There is only one item on the desk: a copy of Carl Sagan’s astronomy tome, Cosmos.
Interesting.
“There’s no computer here,” Evan points out.
Jack walks around to the chair. “The whole desk is his computer,” he explains.
“I'm guessing it’s also the server," Arnie adds. Making his point, he walks around the desk to sit in the chair. The part of the desk facing it has a slight indentation about sixteen inches square. He points out four small metal buttons on the side of the indentation closest to the chair.
Fascinated, we move behind him.
Arnie looks up at Evan. “Do I have your permission to see what these do?”
Evan nods.
Arnie pushes the one furthest on the left. A keyboard rises through the indentation, as does a screen, which is dark except for a prompt bar.
“Neat,” Arnie murmurs, “Except that it wants another security protocol.” He looks up at Evan. “Want to give it a shot?”
They swap places. As the screen reads Evan’s face the keyboard’s pad is large enough to do the same to his hand.
Retaking the seat, Arnie puts a thumb drive into one of the USB slots on the keyboard. “First I’ll search for ‘Operation Horoscope.’”
“No arguments here,” Jack assures him.
Nothing comes up.
“But how could that be?” Jack wonders.
Arnie shrugs. “Worst case scenario: his well-deserved paranoia might have made him write in a self-destruct trigger.”
“You mean, like, if he doesn’t open the file after a certain time period, it would just evaporate?” I ask.
“Something like that,” Arnie replies. “Hey, look at the upside: if he were still alive, it might have needed some sort of password. Had we inputted the wrong one, the same thing might have happened.” He rolls his hands into fists. When he opens them again, he exclaims, “BOOM!”
“Maybe he left it at his house,” Jack reasons. “Pull up his personnel file. We can stop there on the way home.”
“Or, maybe he left it with the person who sent Evan the thumb drive in the first place,” I suggest. “Arnie, are you sure there wasn’t anything else on that drive?”
“Nothing,” he assures me.
Evan snaps his fingers. “Something as important as Operation Horoscope would have also been on my dad’s old computer, right?”
“Perhaps an older version of the project,” Jack reminds him “I would imagine modifications would have been made in the past couple of years.”
“Where is your father’s computer now?” I ask.
Evan grimaces as he glances over at me. Hesitantly, he mutters, “At home in my room.”
I guess he’s wondering if he still has a home.
When I put my hand on his shoulder, an uncertain smile replaces his grimace.
He doesn’t need to worry. On the other hand, Mary has some explaining to do.
“Let’s download his online correspondence,” Jack says. “It may lead us to Lilith, or at least help us identify his post office courier.”
Arnie taps a few keys. “I’m in his BlackTech address book. How far back should I go?”
Jack thinks for a moment. “Operation Horoscope was the company’s second military contract, so, I guess you may as well go all the way back.”
It takes a few minutes. Finally, Arnie murmurs, “Done.”
“Is there a personal email account, or text tied to a mobile number?” I ask.
Arnie clicks around. “Yes, on both accounts. I’ll download those as well.” A minute later he adds, “Jonathan used Protonmail for his private email provider. It’s a high-grade PGP end-to-end encryption service. We’ll need to know the email address and his password. If we guess wrong, any attempt to open an email without it may cause the email to self-destruct. In fact, Jonathan may have already set specific emails to self-destruct after a certain date.”
“Sheesh,” I mutter. “Well, we can’t just guess the email address!”
“We don’t have to,” Evan exclaims. “I have it. He wrote me to when Dad died.” He swipes through his phone’s contacts. “[email protected].”
“What are the odds that ‘rocketman’ also refers to the project?” Jack asks.
“Wouldn’t that be a lucky break!” Arnie replies. “Hey, so, does anyone want to take a guess at the password?”
No one speaks.
I glance around the room. There’s not even a picture on the metal walls.
Only the book on the desk.
Finally, a thought hits me: “What sign was he again?”
“Gemini,” Jack replies.
When I flip open the book, a sterling silver pendant falls onto the desk.
I pick it up. The tiny oval is stamped with an image: the zodiac sign for Gemini. I slip it into my pocket.
I open the book to its index and I search the word Gemini. Finding its primary reference, I turn to the page with its pertinent information, scanning it until I see what I’m looking for. “Try that word followed by the number 85.”
Arnie nods. “With the first letter capped?”
“Yeah, okay,” I reply.
Our tech-op cracks his knuckles. Then wi
th his fingers dangling over the keyboard—
He pauses. “No, wait! We should cap the ’n’ instead.”
“Why?” Evan asks.
“Because capping the first letter is too commonplace. And besides, the ’n’ is the only letter that ‘Gemini’ has in common with the name ‘Jonathan Presley.’”
I shrug. “Interesting rationale. Sure why not? I mean, what have we got to lose?”
“Everything,” Jack mutters.
Yikes. He’s right.
Jack sighs. “Go for it.”
Arnie cracks his knuckles, then types it in…
He gives a gleeful yelp: “We’re in!”
Each email is listed by the sender’s name.
One pops out: Lilith.
I know Jack sees it too because he whispers: “Bingo!”
7
Masculine Signs
Some sun signs are considered “masculine,” whereas others are considered “feminine.” This is not to say that women are the only people born under a feminine sign, and vice versa. Although both men and women have masculine and feminine sides to their personalities, in this case, “masculine” and “feminine” refer to the type of energy most likely to be emanating from someone born under these signs.
For example:
Aries, Gemini, Leo, Libra, Sagittarius, and Aquarius are considered masculine signs. The good news: those born under these signs are found to be assertive and self-assured. They are more aggressive in standing up for what they believe. They are people of action.
The bad news: Many are extroverts to the point of being combative and obnoxious. If they hurt another’s feelings, they justify it somehow. Perhaps the person “deserved it” or needs to “toughen up.”
Feminine signs are Taurus, Cancer, Virgo, Scorpio, Capricorn, and Pisces. The positive traits: they are team players, enjoy socializing, and are sensitive to the needs of others. They think before they act.
