by Fiona Quinn
“Tease.”
And he was gone.
I called Deep back. “Hey there, were you calling me from your office?”
“Roger. I’m heading home now. Did you need something?”
“Yes, it’s been such a long day for you. I don’t need this tonight, but if I gave you a phone number, could you try to get a physical address and a name?”
“That’s a two-second search. Read me the number.”
While I waited for him to do the search and ring me back, I glanced over at the still-warm stove and decided to do a little more baking. In my experience, a chocolate cake went a long way in getting on the good side of someone. I pulled out a bowl and my ingredients. By the time I was stirring things together, Deep had rung me back.
“Your number was a burner phone, sorry.”
“Really? Pooh.”
“Roger that. Was there anything else you need?”
“I made blueberry muffins. Why don’t you stop by and have some?”
“Better grab Gator on my way, or he’ll be ticked he missed out.”
***
“Major Trudy?” I knocked on the door again, this time with a little more emphasis. I’d brought a chocolate cake with its fluffy peaks of icing as my calling card. Movement at the window caught my eyes; someone peeped through the slit in the drapes. I lifted the cake stand in his direction and tried to send him friendly vibes through my smile.
The lock turned, and the door squeaked open. “It isn’t my birthday,” Major Trudy said.
“You came to mind last night while I was whipping this together. I thought you might enjoy a little home-baked treat, and you would save me hours on the treadmill if you ate it instead of me.”
Major Trudy narrowed his eyes, staring me down. I smiled back, pulling up the fluffy bunny routine I used when I first started out. It seemed to do the trick because the door swung wide, and I walked in.
I followed along behind Major Trudy through an empty house to his kitchen and put the stand on his counter. No chairs, no table — it was another empty room.
“Had to sell my stuff,” Major Trudy said as he pulled out plates and forks. “Work’s been hard to find since we were let go. I flip burgers down the street for minimum wage. That pays my mortgage. I eat and heat with the money I pick up from side jobs.”
“Did Iniquus pay you for finding me?”
“Tried to. I turned it down. I don’t like to be beholden. Doing your search got me out from my debt to the general.”
I nodded. “I have to say, I’m dismayed to see the aftereffects of the Galaxy Program on the people who worked it.”
“Hell of a life. You give your all to something, and then you get betrayed. It’s like loving a woman, thinking she was your destiny, and come home one day to find she’d just been using you, now she was done, and you and all your shit are out the door, with everyone pointing and laughing to boot.”
“I’m sorry for all you’ve been through.” I started to reach out to touch Major Trudy’s arm but remembered his three-foot safety bubble and dropped my hand to my side. “Shall I serve up some cake, and we can eat it in the living room?”
He handed me a pie server.
“I read the autobiographies that your colleagues wrote. You all are so brave. I can’t imagine being a pioneer in this science.” I picked up the plates and forks and moved to the only chairs I had seen. Major Trudy followed along. “I remember an interesting story. It had to do with protection.”
Major Trudy sat with his cake in his hands, looking like he’d been deprived of food for days, but still wanted to seem polite.
“I hope you enjoy.” I smiled and took a bite.
Major Trudy shoveled the cake into his mouth then looked skyward with a groan. “That is so good,” he said.
“More?” I pushed to my feet.
“I’ll get it. You can keep on with what you were saying about protection. I can still hear you — the house echoes.”
“The story went that you all learned to break through protection like balls of white light—”
Laughter came from the kitchen. “White light. Fucking cockamamie shit. I fucking loved finding someone surrounded by white light. It meant an easy day and excellent classified information.”
“From what I understand from the book when you all found ways to thwart your targets’ defenses, you also realized that America needed to learn to defend itself. It said that in the hours when you weren’t completing taskings, you worked to develop new protective methods and then to break down each other’s methods. He said it was like an encoder, though, the goal wasn’t to find a fool-proof way.”
Major Trudy reemerged from the kitchen with a piece of cake as large as the plate it sat on. “There’s no way to make something fool-proof. But we came close. Not we, he… Shit if I can’t recall his name.” Major Tracy rocked his lower jaw to the left and canted his head.
“Do you remember anything about what he did?”
“Sure, he had this tall-tale stone. The story goes like this — he and his wife went on vacation, and they found a stone they liked and brought it home as a souvenir. What’s-his-name — shit, I’m just going to call him Voldemort since he doesn’t seem to want to be named. Crap. That’s why I can’t remember his name. I’d bet you everything I own.” He laughed, his eyes scanning over the empty room.
This was the information I had come to collect. “Why can’t you remember his name?”
“So, this guy worked to ‘hide’ information about the stone. Where he got it. Who went with him when he found it. What it meant to him. Whatever he did, it worked. Not one of us could get any of the real information when we remote viewed this object, but each of us came back with a story. None of them were correct. Since the army threw us out on our asses, no one that I know of has worked to break the protection, which means it’s still functional.”
“You said, ‘That’s why I can’t remember.’ Do you think it possible for this person to use the tall-tale stone technique to protect their name? Hide it from being recalled?” I was remembering that General Coleridge experienced exactly the same black hole when it came to this guy’s name. Whoever this guy was, he had disengaged his legal name. Now he used Indigo or the Puppet Master.
“Anything’s fucking possible. I truly believe that now. Probable? That’s another story.”
“Ah.” I took a steadying breath in. “Major Trudy, would you like to earn a thousand dollars right now?”
I expected his face to shine with suspicion, but instead, he got a hungry look in his eyes, and his body thrust forward. For the first time, I wondered if he had food in his cupboards. I pulled out an envelope with the money and the two pages of names listed on notebook paper. Major Trudy’s eyes rested on the banded stack of money.
“All I need you to do, sir, is read out loud each name from this list for me while I watch over your shoulder.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” I reached over and put the stack of money into his hand. He stretched out his other hand and gestured toward the pages with his finger.
Chapter Thirty-One
I moved around the cool darkness of Spyder’s apartment. The temple-like quiet soothed my whirling thoughts. Clicking on the lamp would snap the magic. Instead, I sat down at the table and contemplated the rounded outline of his kettle, red against the deep grey hues of coming night.
The door ticked open, and Spyder’s thin frame moved into view. He sat beside me. Silent.
“Allan Leverone,” I said.
“That was fast. Are you sure your search was thorough?”
“I didn’t follow your instructions, sir. We don’t have that kind of time. Going through the list of Galaxy Project participants and locating each one would take days, if not weeks.”
Spyder smiled broadly. “Excellent. And so you found a wormhole?”
“I did. It seems that Leverone hid his name from his colleagues’ minds with some undisclosed target protection technique
for which he was developing the protocol when the Galaxy Program was defunded. So how it works remains a big secret.”
“Only Leverone knows the methodology?”
“Correct. Now, I can’t prove anything, sir. I’ve developed my ideas based on anecdote, observation, and maybe a little desperation thrown into the mix. So, no facts. One theory is that if Leverone cast the invisibility cloak over his name, people who knew him would seem unable to recollect it, though they’d remember things about him. General Coleridge, his wife, and Major Trudy know who he is. They simply can’t pull up his name. It’s possible that the invisibility cloak covers his hidey-hole, too. No one remembers where he lives. Not General Coleridge and not Major Trudy, anyway.” I glanced back at the kettle. “Tea might be nice. Would you like a cup?” I stood and walked to the stove.
“Thank you. You used the information to your advantage? How did the men not being able to recall the name bring you to the name?”
I waited until I cut the faucet off before I continued. “I used the art technique Mom taught me. If I try to replicate a picture while looking at it, I draw a mess. If I turn the photo upside down and try to draw it, it comes out much more accurately because my brain has to focus on the details and not the larger picture. So to apply that same trick, I took Major Trudy the list of Galaxy Project remote viewers, and I asked him to read each name. And he did.”
“Except one.”
“Yup. He read every single name right down the list, pronouncing them clear as a bell, but when he got to Allan Leverone, his eye moved right down to the next name on the list, even though his finger pointed to Leverone’s name.”
“Clever girl.”
“I cook well, too.” I smiled, pleased to have earned his compliment.
“Which is, of course, the real reason I decided to mentor you. So his address is still shrouded?”
“I’m working on a plan for that. I asked Deep to do some searches for Leverone.” I started laughing so hard I couldn’t talk.
Spider nodded his head with approval and waited me out.
“I made Deep promise me he’d work in the Puzzle Room only. On my way home from Major Trudy’s house, I stopped at Flock Together — Wild Bird Supplies to get doorknobs. I hung a bunch of bird-scare stuff around the room. So don’t be surprised if you start hearing rumors of my impending schizophrenia diagnosis.” I grinned. “I’ve also constructed an aluminum hat to wear while I’m on campus. I say, why not go all in?”
***
Where are you? Gator’s text came through as I pulled up to the security gate at Iniquus. I wanted to check on Deep’s progress.
Driving into Headquarters parking — I typed quickly, then waved to the guard and motored down the road.
STOP! Go to barracks NOW!
I had pulled into the underground parking deck and parked my car before I read the message. I pulled right back out and drove to the high-rise, wondering what was going on. Exclamation points? I thought as I pushed the gas pedal down. Capital letters? I jerked my car into the first open spot. Gator never used either. I leaped from the car and hustled to the elevator, then jammed my finger repeatedly into the call button as if I could telegraph my impatience to its computer system and speed things along. I assumed Gator meant for me to go to Striker’s apartment. I tapped my toe and stared at the light. I had almost decided to sprint the stairs when the doors finally slid open. What was happening?
By the time the elevator zipped me to the top floor, I was wringing my hands with agitation. I knew Spyder would shake his head at my impatience. “The Buddha said, ‘What we think we become.’ If you were to look in the mirror, my dear, you would see that you are a worrywart.” I breathed in deeply through my nostrils. This was not the calm demeanor that would make me unreadable to a remote viewer. I blew out through pursed lips. I needed to be impenetrable, like Spyder. I shook my body and smoothed my hand over my hair. Adjusting my shoulders back, I lifted my chin and consciously released the muscles in my face. By the time I got to Striker’s door, I had even managed a Madonna smile.
I put my hand on the knob to unlock it when the door swung open. Striker reached for my arm and pulled me in, throwing me off balance. Before I knew what was happening, he squatted down and draped me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He turned and kicked the door shut behind him.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said as he stalked through his living room and down his hall, my fanny in the air. “I thought I was going to miss you.”
“What are you…”
“Shhh.” Striker rolled me gently onto his bed, stretching out his hand to guide my head softly onto a pillow. “I’ve got about ten minutes, and I’m well past the point of desperation.” He jerked his shirt over his head. “All I could think about today was you.” With one tug, the buttons on his 501s popped smoothly open.
I came up on my knees and yanked my shirt over my head. “I think I might be a step or two beyond desperation,” I said as I unclasped my bra.
Quickly, our discarded clothes lay across the floor. His hands twisted in my hair, and his lips pressed hungrily against me as we fell back onto the mattress. There was nothing pretty or sexy about what came next. It was just hot, sweaty, and fun. Tangling our limbs together, we wrestled around like going to the mat in a jujitsu tournament, only a lot more gratifying. Laughing, we pinned, flipped, and struggled to burn off the sexual frustration.
Whew! If this kind of sprint was going to be our sex life, I was going to have to up my cardio workouts. When my release came, it was glorious. The pent-up emotions from missing Striker exploded with my orgasm.
Striker slid a hand over my mouth. “Shhh.” He chuckled. “No girls allowed in the men’s barracks.” He bent to gently kiss my mouth as he stroked slowly in and out of me.
“What are you doing? You have to go. Don’t you want to, you know, finish?” I asked, feeling boneless and malleable. I used the last of my strength to pet my hands over the muscular expanse of his shoulders.
“I will, Chica.” He smiled down at me. “But nothing brings me as much pleasure as watching you come.” He peeked over at the clock. “I still have three minutes.”
“You think three minutes will do it? I need a nap first. Finish.”
“Uh-uh.” He rocked back and forth until the tension built in me again.
By the time Striker pulled his pants back on, I was almost comatose on the bed. Too sated to pull my lips together, I drooled onto the pillow. Striker squatted and tucked a strand of damp hair back behind my ear so he could kiss my cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” he said without a trace of sarcasm.
“Mmmm,” I replied.
“I love you,” he said with a self-satisfied chuckle.
“Mmmmph.” What did the man expect after rocking my world not once but twice in ten minutes flat?
I heard him whistling as he went out the door.
***
It was only after I woke up and stretched that I wondered why it was that Gator had texted me to go to the barracks.
I pressed his quick dial number.
“Gator here.”
“Did you need me for something? You texted me to go to the barracks.”
“You must have a big smile on your face.”
He was right — I did. “Why’s that?”
“Darn. Did you miss Striker? He was hoping to see you for a few minutes.”
“No, he was here. I do have a smile on my face. But why was it you and not him sending the texts?”
“He hustled over to get packed as quick as he could, and it was my duty to track you down and get you over there. ‘Send the helicopters if you have to’ were my orders. And I also got to run interference with Vine. You owe me dinner.”
“Why me?”
“Because you cook better than Striker, and because I ran interference for you two with Vine, I’ve got a headache for my efforts, and you’ve got that smile. Seems the least you could do is fill my stomach.”
“It does indeed. Wel
l worth any effort to put dinner together for you. It’s Thursday, so I’m making Italian. Why don’t you bring Deep with you? I needed to talk to him anyway.”
I heard Gator talking with his hand over the phone. “We’re headed over soon. Deep wants to know if you can make manicotti.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gator set the table, and Deep opened a bottle of red. I pulled the manicotti from the oven. I’d cheated and used store-bought pasta. Oh, well.
“Gator, you said on the phone that Striker was packing? Do you know where he’s going? How long he’ll be out?”
“He didn’t talk to me that long. Left his orders and hightailed it out of there.”
“Hmm.” Striker and I needed to work on some system for keeping track of each other. Maybe we could get a place to hang up messages like, “I’ll be downrange dodging bullets until Tuesday the 19th.”
I set a basket of garlic bread and a trivet for the casserole on the table. “What are you two working on in the meantime?”
“Gator’s trying to find Brody Covington, which means Gator’s slamming his head into a wall. Striker told me to be at your disposal until further notice. You were my number one priority. But before we left Headquarters, Colonel Grant overrode those orders.”
“Oh?” I reached back for my chair, but Gator stood behind me, ready to tuck it under my knees. Gator’s mama was a stickler for Southern manners. Even if she had a son, she’d nicknamed “mud pie.”
Deep sat down across from me. “Yeah, all operators who are not in the field tomorrow will be at Headquarters putting the Tsukamoto artwork back into place. He said not to plan on going anywhere or doing anything until every last piece is exactly back where it belongs,” he said. “I pulled the designs from Lacey’s computer, so we know what goes where.”
“Aren’t you going over to the FBI?” I asked.
