Jules knew Caleb Sanderson wasn't stupid. He was clever and intuitive. There would be no point or advantage in denying it. "Yes," she said. "That's why I'm here. And it is serious, but I'd prefer not to talk about it. Heath and Dallin know about it, and we're dealing with it."
"Dealing with it? Really?"
"I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't say anything to anyone. That could make things worse. Please let us deal with it. We'll find who we're looking for. That's a promise."
Jules became aware she was playing with the black string around her finger. She stopped abruptly.
"Look. I don't want this coming back on my crew, Jules. If someone's coming after you, I don't want my friends caught in the crossfire. You understand?"
Jules wondered again why he'd bothered to come after her. "Yes. You're right. Of course," Jules told him. She felt her neck stiffen. "Probably best if I stay away from the group for now. I doubt I'll be doing much of anything for a while anyway."
"Okay," he uttered in his bland tone. "All right. Good."
After a minute of silence, Jules asked, "Are you ever going to cut that beard off?"
Jules was surprised by the nastiness that had infiltrated her voice. She could feel Caleb's eyes on her, but he didn't say anything for what seemed a long time.
"Not likely," he finally answered.
Chapter 24
Fourth of July Party
Beckerman's house was typical for Henderson—a ranch style, beige stucco home with undulating rust-colored roof tiles and a maintenance-free yard. Smooth rose-colored pebbles filled the yard. The landscaping included cacti and other desert-friendly vegetation.
From the Colemans', it had only taken a few minutes to get to Beckerman's. They were neighbors, just six blocks away.
Coleman's wife, Trudi, a dark full-figured Italian woman, had filled Jules in on Beckerman's Fourth of July barbecue party tradition. The Fourth wasn't for two days, but the party was always held the weekend before the Fourth.
Though Jules had only been at the Colemans' a short time, Jules and Trudi had become fast friends.
A dozen or so fellow agents with spouses or partners were sequestered in the family room downstairs while Beckerman tended to the barbecue on the back patio.
Stohl stood up when they entered the family room. He was dressed tropically with colorful knee-length Hawaiian shorts and a yellow short-sleeve polo with a palm tree stitched into the chest. He held a beer in one hand and pointed jovially to the bar with the other. "Beers are in the refrigerator and the wine's on the counter. Help yourself."
The Colemans had brought a bottle of Beck Burgenland Pinot Noir for Jules and Trudi to share. After they settled on the couch, Tony Coleman headed to the bar to open the pinot noir and fetch some wine glasses.
Trudi Coleman was a connoisseur of fine wines, especially reds. Every night, she would introduce Jules to one of her favorites. Jules felt spoiled. There would be a bottle of wine for dinner, usually a red, and then something light for patio conversation when it got dark and cooled off.
Stohl sat in a roomy leather armchair, a smug, alcohol-assisted smile carved into his chubby face. Jules was surprised by his cheerful demeanor. Four days had passed since the press conference and nothing had come of it. The press conference idea had been a flop. As Beckerman had feared, the hotline had been swamped with bogus leads that lead nowhere. Leads that wasted untold man-hours.
Tony Coleman handed his wife and Jules their glasses of wine.
"Thank you, Tony," Jules said.
Trudi clinked glasses with Jules and smiled.
Jules felt uncomfortable calling Coleman by his first name but Trudi had insisted. Jules had always preferred the FBI's long- standing tradition of calling fellow agents by their last name.
The sound of someone thumping their way down the stairs drew everyone's attention. Agent Beckerman appeared at the bottom of the stairs, smiling broadly.
"Trudi, maybe you and Agent Vandevelde could give me a hand."
Jules and Trudi followed Beckerman upstairs. "Trudi, there's potato salad in the fridge and three bags of chips in the pantry. Could you take them down?"
"Sure, Noah. Whatever you need."
"Vandevelde, maybe you could help me with the burgers and hot dogs."
Jules followed Beckerman out to the patio. It was a cement patio with a four-poled canvas canopy. The afternoon heat was oppressive, though it didn't seem to bother Beckerman.
A large serving plate was filled with hamburgers and hot dogs.
"Could I ask you a question?" Jules asked.
"As long as it's not work related, fire away."
"It is and it isn't."
Beckerman slid a spatula under a burger and dropped it on the plate. "Go ahead."
"I'm curious. Why do you call some agents by their first name and some by their last?"
Beckerman looked at Jules and smiled. "Well, it's not all that complicated. Depends on my relationship with them, how long I've known them, and … there are other considerations. Each case is different. I've known Amanda Chandler for a long time. We know each other well and share a mutual respect for one another. Now, in an official setting, we might refer to each other as agents. As for Henry, I call Agent Stohl by his first name because Henry sees it as a sign of respect. Where Henry's concerned, you need to establish a relationship with him if you want to get the most out of him. And just so you know, this isn't the first serial I've worked on with Henry. You could say we have a history. You're not jealous, are you?"
"No," Jules said, louder than she'd meant to. She suddenly regretted having asked him. "It was nothing. I was just curious."
"I think there's enough beef for that plate," Beckerman said cheerfully. "If you can manage it, there are some buns in the pantry. I'll be down with the rest in a minute."
A sudden swirling gust of wind rushed through the patio. The canvas canopy flapped in the wind. Jules closed her eyes and put a hand up in front of her face. When she opened her eyes, Beckerman was blinking wildly. He used the back of his index finger to try to wipe the irritant from his eye. He blinked several more times. His eye was watering up.
"Dammit," he said.
"Can I help? I have some experience with this." Jules had often done it for her stepfather back on the farm in Wisconsin.
"I'm all right," Beckerman replied, blinking and making a face.
Jules grabbed him by the wrist and lead him into the kitchen. Beckerman simply went along.
"Do you have a cotton swab?" Jules asked.
"Down the hall in the bathroom. Top drawer on the right."
"All right. Go in the living room and get comfortable. And leave your eye alone."
"Yes, nurse," he said sarcastically.
Jules found the cotton swabs and grabbed one. After washing her hands, she wet the cotton swab on one end, then headed for the living room.
She turned the light on next to the couch and asked Beckerman to lean his head back. She leaned over him from a standing position. "Raise your eyeballs and then lower them."
Beckerman followed Jules' instructions.
"Found it," she said. "Now, don't move."
Jules gently pushed Beckerman's eyelid up all the way and pinned the lid into his eyebrow with her thumb to keep him from blinking. She moved in with the cotton swab. With intricate care, she lightly dabbed the wet swab on his eyeball where the particle rested. When she drew the swab back, the particle was gone.
Jules heard the door open behind them.
"Got it," Jules said.
Jules straightened up and turned to see who was there. A young woman stood in the doorway staring at them. Her mouth was open and her head canted as if she were witnessing some sort of oddity.
"Carol," she heard Beckerman say.
Jules guessed the woman to be in her mid-twenties.
"Um, sweetie. This is Agent Vandevelde. Agent Vandevelde, this is my daughter, Carol."
Carol Beckerman walked toward them, crisply d
ressed in white shorts and a baby blue halter top. She was fitfully slender and nicely tanned, and she had that fresh look that young women often have. She smiled playfully at them.
"Nice to meet you," Jules said, feeling awkward. She smiled at the young woman.
Carol frowned at her father and gave him a scolding look. "Just wondering dad, does Agent Vandevelde have a first name?"
"Oh, yes. Sorry, honey. This is Agent Jules Vandevelde. She was removing a little something from my eye."
Jules held up the cotton swab as evidence.
Carol Beckerman laughed and shook her head. She offered her hand to Jules. "Nice to meet you, Jules," she said.
"Welp," Beckerman said, standing up and coughing intentionally. "Better get back to the barbecue. Everything's ready."
Jules sensed Carol Beckerman had the innate ability to tilt her father's world off its axis any time she liked.
"Oh, wait," Beckerman said suddenly. "Listen honey, I've got your birthday present. Wait here. I'll get it."
Beckerman hustled down the hallway.
"Is it your birthday?" Jules asked.
"No. Two weeks ago," She said, smiling. "My dad's never on time with birthdays. He'll call and wish me happy birthday on time, but the gifts are always late. I'm used to it."
When he returned, Noah Beckerman held out a colorfully- packaged box inexpertly wrapped and tied in a bow knot with a thin red ribbon. "Happy birthday, hon," he said, looking apprehensive.
Smiling mischievously at her father, Carol Beckerman untied the ribbon and opened the package. Jules felt as if she were intruding on an intimate moment between father and daughter. She thought about leaving but was afraid to disrupt the moment.
Noah Beckerman watched anxiously as his daughter fished a brushed gold locket from the box. A beautifully inscribed message on the surface of the locket read: Little Rabbit, Love Always, Dad.
Carol Beckerman opened the locket and studied the photos inside. Her mouth trembled and she began to tear up. She wiped a tear away before it had a chance to fall. Carol hugged her father and kissed him on the cheek.
She turned to Jules and showed her the photos.
Pictured in the inset on one side was a portrait of a young Noah Beckerman decked out in a black tux, smiling stiffly. In the other inset, a beautiful bare-shouldered woman in a lacy wedding dress, demurely holding a bouquet, smiled radiantly.
"Thanks, dad," she said. "I'll be down in a minute."
Carol Beckerman headed down the hallway and ducked into the bathroom.
Jules helped Beckerman carry the rest of the food down.
Everyone loaded up their paper plates and began to eat.
A while later, Carol Beckerman cornered Jules. "How long have you worked with my father?"
"Not even two weeks," Jules answered, taking a sip of the pinot noir. A smoky aftertaste lingered in her mouth. It was her second glass and would be her last. Jules was circumspect when it came to alcohol and rarely drank more than one or two. "I'm stationed in Quantico," she told her. "Just here temporarily."
Carol Beckerman toyed with the locket and lifted it up for her own inspection. She focused on the inscription. "My dad liked to call me 'Little Rabbit' when I was a kid." She said it wistfully. She looked at Jules. "He still does sometimes."
Carol Beckerman had her father's soft blue eyes. "It's a beautiful gift," Jules told her.
"Thanks," she said. She smiled covertly at Jules. "I'm not sure, but I think my dad likes you," she said in a quiet voice. "Not that anyone would notice. He's not exactly captain obvious. He might not even be aware himself." She looked thoughtful. "Don't pay too much attention to me. I'm thinking out loud. I do that when I've had a couple drinks. I know he's too old and this is none of my business. It's just …" and she paused, "… that's the first time I've seen my father let anyone—well, a woman—get that close to him. Not since my mother died ten years ago. It might be nothing. Maybe it is nothing. I don't know."
Jules smiled at Carol Beckerman. "I like your dad, I do, but we're colleagues. And I don't think removing a particle from his eye meant anything," she said softly. "Besides, I'll be heading back to Virginia before you know it."
"All right. Don't mind me. And don't worry, I won't say anything to him. You’re both adults."
Jules did like Noah Beckerman, but not in a romantic sense. She liked him because he reminded her of her stepfather, perhaps more than anyone she'd ever met. For that reason alone, it was impossible for Jules not to like Beckerman—but strictly as a colleague and coworker.
She also couldn't help but like Carol Beckerman. She was her father's daughter—bright and outspoken, and every bit as comfortable in her own skin as her father. But what Jules liked most about Carol Beckerman was her affection and loyalty to her father.
Chapter 25
Can I Call You Jules?
The sound of her phone's ringtone startled Jules awake. When she was aware enough to realize her phone really was ringing, she lifted her head and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It read 2:15. She couldn't fathom who would be calling her in the middle of the night. Jules fumbled the phone picking it up and mumbled a hello.
"Agent Vandevelde," a man's hollow, echoey voice said. "Hungover from the party?"
"Who is this?" Jules asked, slowly sitting up in bed.
"Oh, I think you know," the voice said. "By the way, I managed to catch you at the press briefing. Very impressive. No doubt about it, Agent Vandevelde, you were the belle of the ball, not that you had much competition. I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Jules shook her head to wake herself up. "How did you get this number?" she asked him.
"Wasn't all that difficult," the voice said.
He was using a voice changer microphone.
She paused a moment. "You have a name?"
"A name? I believe you and your colleagues like to call me the Calligrapher. That'll have to do. By the way, is it all right if I call you Jules? I'd like that. Jules is such a nice name. Simple but beautiful. Has a nice ring to it."
Despite the distortion from the microphone, his voice came off as cool and detached, casual and confident. His words floated through her cell phone like autumn leaves lazily tumbling through the air.
"Okay," she answered. "Jules is fine."
"You need to get dressed, Jules. There's something I'd like to show you."
Chapter 26
Recuperation
Jules eyes felt oppressively heavy. She and Caleb had returned late and the persistent pain had Jules drifting in and out of consciousness throughout the night. The Tylenol didn't help much.
Angela Conway and Dallin were in the tent with her.
Jules was sitting up with her legs stretched out in front of her. She felt silly. Her jeans were a single pant leg now. On the way back, Caleb had pulled over and used his knife to cut the left pant leg off to allow easier access to Jules' wounds.
Jules couldn't wait for them to leave. She wanted to change into a pair of shorts.
Angela hovered over the wounds, inspecting them closely. "Dallin, I want you to go to the clinic and get some gauze dressings and check to see if they have any penicillin or amoxicillin."
"Um. Amox-a what?" he asked.
Angela glanced at him. "Never mind, Dallin. Probably best if I go with you. If they don't have what we need at the clinic, we'll go to the pharmacy and get what we need there. Jules, can you remember the last time you had a tetanus booster?"
"I think about two years ago," Jules responded.
"Okay. No tetanus. We'll get you some ice if possible, if not, we'll find something cold for the swelling, and we'll get some codeine for the pain. From the look on your face, Jules, the Tylenol isn't working. After a few days, we'll switch you back to the Tylenol when you're ready. And, while we're out, we'll see if we can find you a crutch or a walking cane. Best not to put any pressure on that leg for at least a few days." Angela Conway spoke deliberately, her voice soothing in a buttery soft way.<
br />
"Think I'd prefer a walking cane if you can find one," Jules told them.
"No problem," Dallin said.
Jules had been surprised when she found out Angela Conway was the camp nurse. Earlier, Dallin had explained how all of Gideon's medical personnel had been infected the first few days of the viral attack and that left Angela as the only person with medical training. Angela had graduated in nursing from college but had never practiced.
Jules found Angela's bedside manner to be innately calm and pleasant.
"You did a nice job of flushing the wound and keeping it clean, Jules," Angela told her. "The antibiotic will help keep the wounds from getting infected. You're going to need stitches. I'll do that when we get back from Gideon, and we'll put some Polysporin on it too."
Addy entered the tent with a tray of breakfast food and coffee for Jules. Her face was tight with worry. She smiled bravely but looked as if she were on the verge of tears. Since Jules had returned, Addy had been beside herself.
"Here's your breakfast," Addy said.
"Thanks, Addy. I am hungry."
"We should get going," Angela said to Dallin.
"Okay," Dallin said. He gave Jules a couple awkward get-well pats on her upper arm. "We'll g-get those things for you, Jules. Don't you worry none."
The hot oatmeal and buttered bread hit the spot. Jules hadn't realized how famished she was. She ate her meal quickly. When she was done with her coffee, Addy went for a refill.
While Addy and the others were gone, Jules pulled her jeans off, careful not to allow the material to touch her wounds. Then she slipped into a pair of shorts.
The ragged skin bordering Jules' wounds was tinted red and perforated. She probed the skin with the tips of her fingers. It was painful to the touch. She felt like an invalid and didn't like the feeling. She didn't care for the pain either, but she bore it.
She thought about the Calligrapher. Was he out to get her? It didn't make sense to her that he'd want her dead. Her doubts arose from the evidence he'd left at George Albrecht's home. She believed there were very specific reasons behind the orgy of evidence he'd left. He wanted to show her how clever he'd been. How wrong she'd been. He wanted her to know he was more than the Calligrapher. Much more. The Calligrapher was simply one of his creations. But more than anything, he was leaving Jules a message. He was challenging her to match wits with him. He wanted to play. The message was clear. Come catch me if you can. She was certain he hadn't tried to kill her. Without her, there would be no game.
Apocalypse Journeys (Book 2): Finding AJ Page 19
