“Try this one on, Liz,” V.J. ordered, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she held out a cigarette girl costume, complete with short sparkly hot pants and a vendor box. I rolled my eyes and caught sight of a long sleeved, full length dark green gown. Sensing my interest, the skeleton-priest took it down from the rack and handed it to me.
“It’s a Guinevere dress, you know, King Arthur and all that?” he said by way of explanation and then wandered off to aid some other buyer. It was a nice dress, plain, but a pretty color that would look good with my eyes and against my skin. I told V.J. I was going to try it on, fending off her efforts to stuff me into a Marie Antoinette costume, including the four-foot wig, and slipped into the dressing room.
When I pulled the gown on I gave a little sigh of satisfaction. It looked great; fitting snugly to my chest and waist, it flared out slightly at my hips to fall gracefully to the floor, floating tantalizingly as I moved back and forth to get a better look in the shoddy mirror. It had a square neckline that stopped just short of being slutty, and though I worried a little about that much skin being uncovered, I reflected realistically that if anyone brushed up against that part of me with bare skin it would be Carey, and a little shiver of excitement rolled down my back.
“Let me see!” V.J. demanded, her voice just outside the door. I twirled out, feeling suddenly giddy and frivolous, and she gasped, saying it was perfect and that she wished she could get away with a dress like that.
“Do you think I should get it?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. After all, I had meant to get something innocuous, and I would be anything but innocent in that gown.
“I do. You look great. Carey will flip!” she exclaimed and I agreed. I was actually pretty curious to see Carey’s reaction myself.
I got dressed and we got in line at the register behind a guy buying a doctor’s coat and a fake stethoscope. V.J. was chattering happily in her usual manner when my eye was caught by a tall figure in a black suit wearing a Richard Nixon mask. I froze, uncertain as to why I felt so sure that the figure meant me harm, but I was filled with an instinctual compulsion to run for it. There was something familiar about the tilt of his head, the focused way his dark eyes fixed on me.
I swallowed nervously and darted my eyes around for an escape route. I didn’t know what he wanted, but every nerve in my body screamed that I didn’t want to know. Besides, the Nixon mask was just too creepy.
“Are you ok?” V.J. asked. I absentmindedly nodded and stepped up for my turn at the register. I didn’t even cringe at the high price of the costume, I just wanted out of there and away from the false Nixon, who was keeping a silent vigil across the room. I paid for the costume and quickly ushered V.J. out of the store.
“Do you think we can skip lunch? I’m not feeling well all of a sudden,” I said, glancing over my shoulder as we walked to her car.
“Sure, no problem. Do you want me to take you on home?” she asked worriedly.
Agent Carson walked a few yards behind us, and with a shock I realized he had been the man in the Nixon mask. He trailed along casually, but his gaze seared into me even at a distance. My stomach cramped in fear and a heavy, sick feeling settled over me. I recognized that feeling; it’s the same level of terror a rabbit experiences before the fox leaps in for the kill.
“If you don’t mind,” I mumbled, stepping up the pace, desperate to make it to the relative safety of V.J.’s car.
“No problem. Yeah, you look a little pale.”
I heaved a sigh of relief when we reached her car and I could slide into the passenger seat and lock the door. Still chalking up my strange behavior to some mysterious ailment, V.J. backed out of the space, yammering on cheerfully about her costume and our plans for the following night. I made the correct noises in response but my attention was definitely compromised by the shadow of the taciturn federal agent always at my back. By the time we had made the forty minute drive back to my house, I was giving a very realistic impression of being ill.
I bade V.J. a short goodbye and dashed into the house, locking all the doors and drawing all the blinds. I didn’t know why this particular appearance of Agent Carson had pushed me off the deep end, aside from the general eeriness of the encounter, but I was definitely in full defensive mode.
Twenty minutes later I was nestled on the couch watching TV with the sound turned off, all senses trained on my surroundings. The sound of a car pulling into the gravel driveway had me tensed in a fighting position just behind the door. After a moment, a door slammed and I heard the crunch of footsteps coming up to the stoop. I wasn’t sure whether to run or to see who it was, so I stayed pressed against the wall where my silhouette couldn’t be picked out from behind the blinds. A sturdy knock on the door was followed by a voice I didn’t expect.
“Miss Hannigan? Mr. Hannigan? It’s Agent Thrasher with the FBI. I just need to speak with you a moment.” I bit my nails while I considered this new development. What was going on? Why was Carson tailing me while his partner just showed up at my door? I opened the connection between Thrasher’s and my mind and was surprised by what I heard.
“I know someone’s in there, I can see the TV flickering. Oh, c’mon, just answer the door so I can finish my report and get out of this Podunk town…geez, what time is it? I’ve got to get this finished by tonight; bad enough we couldn’t find evidence on the Slashers, now I can’t even get Fitz’s case wrapped up without some freaky teenager…”
I stopped listening and thought for a moment. Obviously Thrasher was here on routine business, finishing a report. He was anxious to get out of town, which probably meant he wasn’t after me for anything. Was it possible that Carson had been following me around without his partner’s knowledge?
After hesitating another moment I cracked the door open, still taut and ready for action.
“Yes?” I said, keeping my body inside, hand on the door, ready to slam it shut if necessary. Thrasher gave me an exasperated look and stepped closer.
“Miss Hannigan, I’m sorry to bother you again. Can I come in? I need to finish up some paperwork with you,” he said in his calm, federal voice.
I bit my lower lip, not hearing anything in his thoughts that indicated he was telling me anything but the truth. “My Dad’s not home yet; could you wait until he gets here?”
Thrasher sighed and looked pointedly at his watch. “It’s really not anything to worry about. I just need to go over your statement with you one last time before I head back to Washington.” I could hear the impatience in his voice and knew he was sincere.
I dithered for another moment and then opened the door to let him in. He gave me a grateful, if weary, smile and entered the house. Still nervous and monitoring his thoughts carefully, I led him into the living room where we’d met before. He took a seat in the armchair and I perched on the edge of the couch, ready to jump up at the slightest sign that he was here for a more sinister purpose.
“Thank you, Miss Hannigan. This won’t take long.”
He showed me a stack of papers and went over them carefully with me. They simply restated the story I had fed to Thrasher weeks before. I didn’t see anything incriminating in them, and since I had downloaded several different types of lawyers, I felt pretty confident in my ability to spot anything not on the level. Still, I hesitated, unwilling to sign my name to anything the government might get its hands on. I was pretty sure the FBI had samples of my handwriting somewhere in my file; I really didn’t want to provide them with anything that could draw attention to my new hiding place. A sudden, concentrated anger filled me as I realized that nothing would ever be normal for me. Even if Dad and I were able to carve some kind of life for ourselves in Pound, I would forever have to question other people’s motives, be careful what I signed, avoid getting my picture taken, a million little things that make up a normal life.
“I can’t sign that,” I said, knowing that this would provoke an argument with the agent. Sure enough, his heavy features darkened and he gave me a disb
elieving look.
“What is she playing at? God, I took forever on these…she’d better not try to retract now, I’ll never get a conviction if she does. I want out of homicide and into counterterrorism…I’ve got to get Fitz, I have to…”
I tuned out since I was pretty sure he still had no idea about me and I was getting a headache. I put my head in my hands, trying frantically to come up with some kind of explanation or reason for my refusal that would make sense, but nothing came to mind and I could hardly tell Thrasher I was afraid to leave a paper trail with the FBI.
“What is it, Miss Hannigan? Have you been threatened? Or intimidated?” Thrasher asked in a gentler voice. I sighed, wishing I could just lie again and say yes, the big bad bikers had scared me, but I found I was tired of lying to this man, this decent man just trying to do his job.
Instead I asked, “Why didn’t your partner just ask me about all this sometime in the past week? He’s been following me everywhere and it’s creepy.”
Thrasher eyed me with some surprise. “Agent Carson has been following you? That’s not possible; he’s supposed to be in Virginia right now following a lead…” Thrasher trailed off, deep in thought. Opening my mind to his once more, I found that he was considering some suspicions that he had entertained before about Carson. There had been talk about a missing asset from one of Carson’s cases years before. And there were rumors about the shooting that killed his previous partner. Thrasher had never fully trusted Carson, something had always felt off about him.
“Tell me exactly where and when you’ve seen him,” Thrasher said, his voice urgent. I complied, including that afternoon’s weird little incident with the Richard Nixon mask, watching Thrasher’s expression become more and more concerned. When I had finished, he leaned back in the chair and stared at nothing in particular, his mind racing with possibilities. I was a little taken aback myself; while I had worried about Carson knowing who I was and hauling me off to some government facility it had never occurred to me he might be a dirty agent. The thought left me hollow inside.
The back door slammed shut and Dad came pounding into the room calling my name. His face relaxed with apparent relief when he saw me sitting safely on the couch, and I knew he must have seen the Suburban outside and had been worried that some agent, either for the FBI or the Coalition was waiting for him in the house. His relief turned into rage as his eyes lit on Agent Thrasher sitting on the chair across from me.
“You son of a bitch! You can’t take her, I’ll kill you first!” he growled, lurching toward Thrasher, menace clear in the lines of his considerable height. Years of hard work on construction crews and nightly training sessions had turned my soft, gentle father into a physically intimidating, dangerous man, and Agent Thrasher’s face flashed brief confusion that immediately turned to wariness. I leapt to my feet and jumped in front of Dad.
“Dad! Stop! He’s not here for that! Just stop! I’m fine,” I said hurriedly, trying to get through my father’s protective instincts and reason with him. He halted abruptly and glanced down at me.
“He’s not here to take you away?” he asked, his voice quiet and tense. I shook my head emphatically and he breathed, his entire body sagging with the release of pressure. “Excuse me, Agent Thrasher. I’m sorry, I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Give me a moment please.” Dad turned around on his heel and slipped back out the door, no doubt using the brisk October air to cool him down.
Thrasher was on his feet now, an entirely new expression on his face, one of avid curiosity. “What was that about? Is your father afraid someone is coming to take you away?” he asked, keeping his voice calm and soothing, as though he were talking to a rabbit that might bolt.
I racked my brain for an innocuous explanation but he just kept going.
“Are you in hiding from someone? Your mom? Is she trying to find you? Is he worried that social services is going to take you away? Has he abused you?” The questions kept coming, designed to push a button and make me break my silence. It’s a very effective technique, one I have become familiar with. It didn’t work on me anymore.
I just stared him down, my face reflecting nothing of the turmoil going on within. His thoughts told me that he had always thought there was something about me, something I was hiding and he was dying to know why my father was afraid of the government. Thankfully, Dad finally rejoined us, his face as blank and emotionless as mine.
“Again, Agent Thrasher, I’m very sorry about my outburst. It’s been a stressful time for us. What can I help you with?”
Thrasher just arched his eyebrows at my father, skepticism written all over his face. Dad exchanged a look with me that clearly said “sorry.” I shrugged and patted his hand briefly.
“Why were you afraid I was here to take your daughter away, Mr. Hannigan?” Thrasher switched tactics and spoke to Dad in a brusque, businesslike tone.
“It doesn’t matter now. It’s obvious that you mean her no harm. Again, what can I do for you?” Dad replied, no sign of how raw his nerves must have been in his voice.
“He wanted me to sign some papers, Dad, but I didn’t think I should without checking with you, or maybe even a lawyer. How am I supposed to know what they mean, right?” I said, hoping my voice wasn’t too shaky. Dad and I were skating on very thin ice now, and with a sinking feeling of dread, I knew that this was it. We were going to have to pick up and leave. No more Carey, no more V.J., just the open road and an empty life.
“Well, that makes sense, hon,” Dad said, still being careful. Thrasher was watching both of us intently, almost forgetting his original purpose in coming.
“Never mind that now. I’d like to know why you thought I was here to remove your daughter,” Thrasher persisted and I found myself just willing him to go away, to leave and stop asking questions. Pointless though I knew it was, I drilled him with a fervent look, pleading in my mind for him to just leave.
Abruptly, Thrasher straightened and his face took on a curiously blank expression. “Well, I’ll just be going now,” he said, his voice slightly incredulous. As though wondering what he was doing, Thrasher turned around and walked to the front door, down the steps and into his car. Dad and I staggered behind him, completely thrown by the turn of events and marveled to see the agent back out of the driveway, finally disappearing around the bend in the road.
“What the hell just happened?” Dad asked, watching the driveway with a bemused expression.
“I don’t know,” I replied, but I was starting to have an idea, a crazy, impossible idea. I was remembering the night of Jared’s party when I was looking at Carey and imagining him kissing my neck, and then he did, just as I had pictured. And then that day when I was so angry at him and told him just to leave and he immediately did. And now this.
I walked back into the house and sat down on the couch, staring absently at my hands. Was it possible that I could not only download minds, read thoughts, and apparently implant memories, but that I could give commands?
“Sweetheart? What is it?” Dad eased himself next to me on the couch and looked at me worriedly. Could I burden him with this right now? Was I even sure that’s what had happened?
I shook my head. “Nothing, I’m fine. Just exhausted. I’m going to close my eyes for a bit.” Dad pulled the afghan over me and kissed me lightly on the top of my head, flipping off the lights as he made his way to the kitchen. I sighed and shut my eyes, trying to remember if there had been any other time when I had really wanted someone to do something and they had.
Fifteen minutes later there was a violent banging on the front door. I jumped to my feet and Dad came bounding around the corner. After exchanging a look, he moved to the door and called “Who is it?”
“It’s Agent Thrasher and I want to know what the hell you just did to me!”
Chapter 14
Dad gave me a helpless look and I closed my eyes. Ok, so apparently I had given Thrasher some kind of mental command to leave, but it had worn off. Why? Was it a proximity thin
g? Did I have to concentrate more, be more specific?
I shook my head. These were things to worry about later. What I needed to focus on now was the pissed off federal agent banging on my door.
“Do we let him in?” Dad asked quietly.
“You had better let me in or I’ll come back with a warrant and two other agents!” Thrasher yelled through the door, sounding very unlike his usual cool self. I shrugged and reached for the knob.
“We may as well,” I whispered, “but I don’t know what we’re going to say.” Dad nodded and I opened the door to see Thrasher looking wild-eyed and frazzled.
“Agent Thrasher, we didn’t expect you back,” I said, trying to keep my voice normal. He laughed shortly and pushed past me into the house, tramping on into the living room. Dad and I held a whispered conference before joining him, but we still weren’t able to come up with anything. Especially since Dad had no idea what I had done. Hell for breakfast, I didn’t even know what I had done.
“Yeah, I’m sure you didn’t. Just what exactly did you do to me?” The fuming agent turned to glare at us as we entered the room, face taut with rage. “One minute I was here asking you questions, finally getting to the bottom of things and then the next thing I know, I hear your voice inside my head and I’m in my car five miles down the road! Explain!”
I swallowed. I hadn’t seen a government agent this angry since…well, since a time I don’t like to think about anymore.
Somehow that memory gave me courage, reminding me I was free now, or at least relatively so, and I wasn’t about to return to those dark days anytime soon. As though he knew what I was feeling, Dad squeezed my gloved hand briefly, and I opened my mind to him.
“Sweetheart, it’s up to you what you want to do. I will support you and protect you no matter what, even if it includes knocking this man unconscious and making a run for it. We’ve done it before and we can do it again. I love you.”
At First Touch Page 18
