Modern Magic
Page 104
Aiden had put Cait’s name in the email to Joshua, and now requested that the Chicago Enforcer delete that message so there would be no trail linking back to her. Her secrets were not his to share, and he’d already made a monumental error by trapping her. Compelling her.
If she’d been the killer, the ends would have justified the means. Since she wasn’t, he was left with a damn-all mess.
What did you do to say you were sorry when you’d almost killed someone, willingly? When you’d accused her of brutally murdering four men and a woman? Send flowers?
Aiden snorted at the idea of a cliché being so inadequate in comparison to the offense.
But…
“Flowers never hurt,” he said to the blinking cursor on his screen. “Groveling would probably be in order, if she’ll speak to me.”
He pulled up his contact list, placed a call to his favorite florist, one he used for clients, and ordered a delivery for the following morning.
Flowers were a cliché for a reason.
Aiden considered that for a moment. Somehow, he doubted she got flowers from the aliens.
Holy gods, my neighbor works for aliens.
She’d been in the Towers.
A flashing symbol on his screen caught his attention. Opening the file, it showed him an impressive wealth of new data on Dr. Cait Brennan. Her people had apparently been working hard to cover her ass, and they’d covered it well.
Her lack of data made sense, now.
He was relieved, in some ways, to know he wasn’t entirely losing his touch.
But none of that was really her. None of it was real. He started to shut the computer down.
They think I’m dead.
That’s what she’d said. She had family but they all thought she’d died that day, when the Towers fell. On sudden inspiration, he reopened his contact list.
He knew what it was like to be alone. Isolated. But he could still talk to his Aunt. His sister. Friends and colleagues—for both of his jobs—were just a phone call away.
She had none of that.
So he got busy. He called in favors, some years in the owing.
His counterpart in New York City laughed. “Of course I remember you. Whatcha need?” She laughed even harder when he told her it was for a friend. A woman. Then sobered when he gave her a bit of the story, and how badly he’d messed up.
“Consider it done.”
It was the right thing to do, no matter what.
Odds were against him, but still, if he played his cards right, maybe she would at least speak to him. If she would listen to him, without frying his ass where he stood, then maybe he could explain.
Apologize.
Helping him might be too big of a stretch, after the way he’d showed his ass.
For an hour he sat at his computer and worked a different kind of magic. All the while, he wondered what it must be like, working for an alien race to keep order on your home planet.
It must be achingly lonely. She’d compared it to Men in Black, the series of movies where aliens walked among humans with only a few the wiser.
Aiden presumed she was the equivalent of Agent K, except in her case, she was a former marine, not a cop. For the first time since morning, he grinned. That made her a major badass.
But badass or not, she had no one. Not one soul knew the person she’d been, the person who’d died in the Towers. Not one soul knew she was alive.
And there was no one to turn to if everything went sideways.
“That’s a hell of a burden to carry,” he said. His heart actually hurt for her, and that unfurled a completely different red flag, which he promptly wadded up and mentally stuffed in a hole where his other deepest longings were buried.
It wasn’t about him. But maybe, just maybe, he could help.
Nodding, he signed off, shut down his computers and went to his workroom. Dragging to the point of dropping, he still had to check the building’s shields, and set himself and the building to recharge. And he had to begin to make preparations to withstand an attack.
His only other task, magically, was to check the river. Somehow whatever lurked there was connected to Cait Brennan. The least he could do was monitor it and try to help.
* * *
When Cait awoke in the morning, it was to the buzz from the front desk. She looked blearily at her phone, only to sit bolt upright.
“Holy crap, it’s nine thirty!”
She’d slept for nearly twelve hours.
“Shit!”
The buzzer sounded again and she stumbled to the living room to press the button.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Brennan, we have several deliveries for you. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Thanks,” she managed, staring blankly at the intercom. “Uh, I’ll be down in a little while.”
“I’ll have everything behind the desk,” the voice replied with irritating morning cheer.
“Yeah, good. Thanks.”
She leaned on her arm, assessing. She was groggy and stiff, and her mouth was sour from sickness and fear.
Other than that, she felt…alive.
Turning back to the room, she looked around. Nothing had been moved, no box had been opened, no telltale was out of place. It was as if nothing had happened.
“The bogeyman was never here.”
She showered, checked in with the Kith and downloaded all the updated news. While she told them about Chavez and the FBI, she said nothing about her encounter with Aiden.
She watched every channel and read every report the Kith could muster on the murder of Senator O’Reilly, the GOP Senator from Illinois. Early in the morning, O’Reilly had opened his door to get the paper. The paper and O’Reilly’s hand were found in the blood-soaked foyer.
His wife and four children, sleeping upstairs, never heard a thing.
The Kith promised a further download on the missing, former senator, if they could find anything.
Finally, she decided she could face the guard at the front desk and whatever packages had been delivered. Carefully locking her door, she made her way down to the lobby. There was still a guard on the door to Three-A, but she bade Cait a good morning and went back to her book.
Three boxes marked OVERNIGHT! URGENT! sat waiting, along with three enormous bouquets of flowers.
“I’ll be glad to help take these up for you,” Tarik offered, a smile wreathing his face. “Good to see something as cheerful as these, after everything going on here the last few days.”
“Yes,” she said, still staring at the flowers. “I guess so. You sure they’re for me?”
“All got your name on them, and your apartment number, this address. Even spelled your name right and all.” He pulled one of the delivery tags off the flowers, and handed it to her. Sure enough, it said Dr. Cait Brennan, *****Four-A, and the address on Connecticut.
It took her two trips, even with Tarik’s help. The guard perked up at the sight of the flowers and smiled.
“Pretty flowers,” she commented. “Lucky you.”
“Yes, absolutely,” Cait said, trying to cover the fact that she had no idea who they were from.
She put everything on the coffee table, thanked Tarik, and sat down to stare at the glorious fall colors rioting in vases in front of her. It felt paranoid to scan everything for explosives or traps, but she got out her PDA and did it anyway.
Nothing.
Flowers.
A reading of the boxes showed amorphous shapes inside, none of which were living, or armed, or potentially explosive.
The card on the biggest bouquet was marked *****1, so finally, she pulled it off.
Chapter Fifteen
Cait –
There’re no excuses, only apologies.
It occurred to me that no one sends you flowers on your birthday, or when you get back to town, or for a job well done. I took the liberty of ordering some for all three occasions. Whenever your birthday is, happy birthday!
Aiden
It didn’t matter that it was in April. It had been more than thirteen years since she’d gotten flowers from anyone, for anything.
Yanking off the next card, she read it and sobbed harder, tears streaming down her face.
Cait –
Welcome home! It’s not New York, but DC’s a great town. Despite how I’ve behaved, I’m glad you’re here. If you’ll forgive me, maybe I can buy you dinner to welcome you to Washington.
Aiden
How could he know? How could he know what it meant?
Barely able to see through her tears, she opened the third card.
Cait –
I don’t totally understand what you do, but it seems that we have similar jobs. Protect and serve, the police motto, barely covers it, right? And no one knows, ever, that we’re there.
So from one anonymous guardian to another, Congrats on a Job Well Done.
Aiden
It took her ten minutes to stop crying. She smelled the flowers and cried some more, then sat staring at them, smiling so hard her face hurt. They were beautiful. Just beautiful.
It was so different to have them just arrive, rather than buying them yourself at the market or grocery store.
Her stomach growled at the thought of groceries, and that finally reminded her that she needed breakfast. She felt hollowed out by the previous night’s events and the emotional rollercoaster of the flowers.
She’d get something easy on the stomach, toast maybe, and figure out what she was going to say to Aiden. She’d planned to avoid him from now on, and as soon as it wouldn’t raise suspicions with law enforcement, get the Ty-Op and get out.
Until then, she needed to avoid Aiden.
The cards, the flowers, softened her image of Aiden, but the memory of how vulnerable she’d been, completely at his mercy pissed her off. Slip Traveler Cait Patten was not a woman who would face that twice. So however she approached it, Aiden Bayliss was on the “keep at arm’s length” list from this point on.
Cait rose, only to stub her toe on one of the boxes.
“What are these, dammit?” She used the edge of her bracelet weapon to slit the tape. The minute it released the edges of the box, she smelled them.
“Oh, my God,” she repeated for the umpteenth time. The unmistakable fragrance of New York bagels, fresh ones, hit her full force. Just inside the box, on top of an “I (Heart) New York” sweatshirt, in the right size, lay yet another note.
Good Morning! Enjoy! – Aiden
Underneath, a large bag held smaller bags, each with two bagels of varying kinds.
“What has he done?”
She pulled one out, then ripped open the bag for a cinnamon raisin bagel. She inhaled the scent, closed her eyes, and took a bite.
Once again, tears flowed. How could he possibly have known?
The next box, complete with ice packs, held cream cheese and traditional lox. There was a kitschy Statue of Liberty nightlight, as well as a framed print of the Brooklyn Bridge lit up with fireworks behind it on the Fourth of July.
Last but not least, there was a box that was clearly a local delivery.
The note inside this box said, “Welcome to Washington!”
A sweatshirt, like the ones street vendors sold all over the city, said, “You Don’t Know Me, I’m In the Witness Protection Program.”
“Oh, my God, you didn’t,” she said, holding it up and laughing. It was funny on so many levels, levels only he could appreciate. A mug from Starbucks showed cherry blossoms and the monuments and proclaimed “Washington, DC” along the side.
Finally, in the bottom, a jar of olives and another note.
Cait –
Please forgive me. I couldn’t find an olive branch, so I sent the olives themselves. And let me buy you dinner at Georgia Brown’s tonight. It’s not New York cuisine, but…it reminds me of my home and I’d like to share that with you. I’ll await your call or text.
Contritely yours,
Aiden
Cait grabbed her phone and sent Aiden a text. Before she could chicken out, she tried to call. His phone, unlike hers, had voice mail.
She stalled when she heard his voice. What the hell was she doing? Too late now, since she’d called without blocking the number.
“Aiden, it’s Cait,” she finally said, then hesitated, wondering what to say next. “Call me.”
That was stupid. What happened to keeping him at arms-length?
Cait sat on the couch and stared at the flowers. She’d never felt so laid bare, so violated, then…so cherished—yes, it was true, opening those boxes, she’d felt cherished—all in a short span of time, all by the same person.
Still, she should’ve thought it through before she contacted Aiden. Now that it was done, she had no idea what she’d say when he called back.
Enough of this.
She was here to do a job. She had a satellite relay to set up to send direct coordinates for pickup of the Ty-Op. Normally it would have been on her own building, but since the place was crawling with investigators and being scanned with every Earth technology in existence, it had to be elsewhere.
Cait got herself together, locked up and headed out.
“Hello, Cait!” Mrs. Potts sang out as soon as Cait stepped into the upper lobby. “So good to see you this morning. I’ve baked some cookies,” she said, and Cait realized the fabulous aroma she’d smelled was the chocolate chip cookies she’d been warned about. She sniffed, enjoying the mix of deliciousness in the air. There were possibly cinnamon cookies as well.
“I’m hoping Aiden will be back soon, so he can be my taste tester,” she said, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “He says he has to test them for me, make sure they’re up to standard.”
“That seems like a good plan,” Cait said, smiling at the thought. “Wouldn’t want inferior baked goods out there, right?”
“Exactly. If he’s not back from his chat with that odious Agent Chavez soon, you might have to test them.”
“That would be such a hardship,” Cait said, playing along with the fun, but relieved to know where Aiden was. How high school was it that he’d done a horrible thing, sent flowers to apologize, and now she was nervous because he hadn’t returned her call? Something was so girlie-wrong about that, but now was not the time to hash it out. “Of course, I could do that now and save Aiden the trouble.”
“You could. Why don’t you come in, have some coffee and test a cinnamon crisp for me?”
“Happy to,” Cait said, following the older lady into her neat, almost obsessively tidy space. She’d set up a large silver coffee urn, along with coffee service items, sugar tongs, the whole works.
“Expecting a crowd?”
“Oh, yes, the CSIs are coming back, or so the guard tells me. If they’re going to be working here, I’m going to enjoy their company. The law enforcement people—the regular ones—are so grateful and have such interesting stories to tell.”
“The forensics teams?”
“Now Cait,” she said, with a smile, “they’re quite nice. And they’re not asses like the agents.” Mrs. Potts spoke over her shoulder as she went into her kitchen. Coming back out, she held a silver tray, complete with doily and a gorgeous two-dozen batch of the most delectable-smelling cinnamon crisps Cait had ever seen.
She had three before the first of the techs arrived next door. Two had been there before. She recognized them. The other was new to her. They had scanners, hoses, and piles of equipment they were bringing up the stairs and into Three-A.
Uncomfortable with polite smiles when the techs came in for cookies, Cait made her escape.
She walked to the corner before catching a cab for the nearest Starbucks. That took her down Connecticut Avenue toward the heart of DC. She didn’t want to get too close in, as the White House radar array was fairly s
ophisticated.
She ordered a latte, then while it was being made, she slipped into the bathroom. Piercing the drywall behind the toilet tank where it wouldn’t be seen, she inserted the narrow, black tube she’d carried in her purse. It weighed about three pounds, and though it looked like a thin pencil, it was segmented and flexible.
Activating it, she washed her hands and left. She was waiting for her drink before her FBI tail came in the coffee shop.
The wormlike radar device would crawl up the toilet’s exhaust stack, all the way to the roof. Once there, it would deploy and act as a signal bounce, routing anything she sent straight to the Kith. Nothing would ever be tracked or traced as coming from her building.
Collecting her drink, she walked for several blocks, visited a drugstore, then stopped into a boutique right next to yet another Starbucks. She took her time, watching the people, noting that her tail was wearing hard-soled shoes and not enjoying the task of keeping up with her.
Cait strolled toward home, carrying her Starbucks cup, her drugstore purchases, and a cute dress. She’d liked it and bought it. It had nothing to do with Aiden’s offer to take her to dinner.
After considering it, Cait knew she did need to talk to the man. She had a bargain to make. To get his guarantee that he’d never speak of what she’d told him under duress. Last night she’d assumed she was as good as dead after she’d told him about the Sh’Aitan. Then, in the light of day, she decided they might not know. They might not ever figure it out. Not if she kept her mouth shut.
Aiden was a man with a lot of things to hide. She’d keep his secrets only if she truly believed he would keep hers.
It made her gut clench, but Cait had to talk to him again.
With that resolved, she smiled as she caught sight of her trailing FBI shadow, limping down the sidewalk a half a block back. She smiled as she headed into the building.
* * *
When Aiden returned home, the CSI van sat out front and yellow crime scene tape was back as décor du jour.
“Aiden Bayliss, One-A,” he said to the officer guarding the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Potts had baked something luscious and cinnamon. He smelled it before he got to the bottom of the stairs.