by Quinn, Fiona
Hmm, that felt like a cover-up. “Good,” I answered, and waited for what he really wanted to say.
“You ever do anything like that before for Spyder?”
“He’d never have let me do something like that. I was Alex remember?” I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“The whole evening seemed to come naturally to you, that’s all.”
“Did I make you jealous?”
“I knew you were doing your job. Did I particularly love this job? No. But Babcock isn’t your type, so I let it go.”
“Oh? You have me figured out, then. So, what is my type?” I pulled my legs around and hugged my knees.
“You like men with superpowers.”
“Doesn’t every little girl?”
“Not from my experience. Most are satisfied with your run of the mill boy-band singer or football hero.” Striker offered me a lop-sided grin.
“And what’s your type, Striker?”
“My type for dating and my type for a serious, committed relationship are pretty different.”
“Different boxes, huh? Okay. For dating?”
“I dated for pleasure; I was looking for beauty, grace, good sex and basic conversation.”
I took note of the past tense he used and happiness effervesced in my veins.
“When I think of a forever relationship, I want a diamond - multifaceted depth, beauty, fire, enjoyment, intellectual sparkle. I want to viscerally feel the connection.” Striker spoke slowly, hypnotically, looking deep into my eyes, watching how his words affected me. Boy were they affecting me, I wanted to launch myself into his arms, feel his hands and mouth on me…
“Up until this point, I’ve been married to my job,” he said.
My breath caught. “Like Gater?”
“I was like Gater, yes.” He nodded slightly, eyes unwavering.
“No more?” I asked.
A slow dimpled smile, warm eyes – oh, yum. “I’m evolving.”
“I’m not sure I understand what that means.” I said.
“I’m not sure I do either.”
That was quite the statement. I focused on my hands as I let the information sink in. I was thrilled and terrified at the same time. When I looked back up at Striker, he had that assessing look again.
“One little thing bothered me. Could you please explain your comment in Babcock’s bedroom?”
“Which one?” My mind scanned the bedroom scene and came up empty.
“The one that went, ‘That’s the second hideous, troll penis I’ve seen because of Iniquus’.”
I sat with this for a minute. He was holding his breath. Apprehension? I waited to figure out what it was, and when it dawned on me, I started laughing a deep-down, belly-grabbing, open-throated, tear-streaming laugh. When I was at the safe house, I had accidentally walked in on Striker when he was getting out of the shower. Believe me when I say Striker has nothing to do with hideous troll penises.
“You think this is funny?” Striker asked.
“Totally.” I gasped for air and tried to compose my face. “You’re afraid that I was making reference to your family jewels.” Striker didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t blink an eye. Oh, the poor boy, and his male ego. It wasn’t particularly kind of me, but every once in a while, I liked to see cracks in Striker’s perfection. They were so rare.
“Yes, tonight was the second hideous troll penis,” I said. “You saw Babcock; you have to agree, that was unpleasant.” No reaction. “And, there was the one I saw the day of the bank robbery.” I told Striker the story of Seph’s lady friend getting into his briefs when I was trying to get into his briefcase. “Shall I tell you how I would describe your boys?” I asked, innocently, kneeling up so we were eye to eye.
“No, thanks. I was just wondering why you were looking at penises when you were on duty. Normally, we don’t pay for that kind of work.”
“Right, and if I have to look at troll penises in the line of duty, I think I should get combat pay.” I smiled as I slipped onto Striker’s lap and took a sip of his port. “What happens now with the Babcock case? Do I need to do some puzzling?”
“Not yet. He gets watched for a while. We’ll see if he leads us anywhere. We’re fishing.”
That night, I dreamt I lived in a small cage … eating food like a little rodent, nibble, nibble, nibble. The leopard sat on the other side of the bars watching me and licking her teeth. When I woke up I felt grubby, hungry, despairing, and terrified. I took a long hot shower and tried to wash the memory of my dream down the drain.
Twenty-Seven
Iniquus installed surveillance on Tammy’s house and car. Central Command had found Tammy’s link to Maria through Maria’s brother, Carlos. Carlos was married to Tammy’s mom for about a nanosecond before he was put in prison for life for shooting a police officer.
Tammy was an easy study. She’d written a blog since she was a freshman in high school. Blog might be a stretch. It was more like an on-line, open-kimono journal. She shared everything about her life, and I mean everything. She friend-ed me, as Pete Sake, on Facebook. What’s one more friend when you had thousands, right?
Manny knew what he was talking about; Tammy definitely wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Naïve. Easily wounded. Easily taken advantage of. Easily manipulated. Desperately wanting to be seen as loving and loveable. Tammy didn’t present the face of an enemy. I’d keep close track, though, to see how much auntie influenced her.
My task now was finding Maria’s husband, Julio Rodriguez. I put his name through the national criminal background check. I wanted to see if he got caught playing ball, and what court he liked to play on…and there he was: Julio Philippe Rodriguez, Honduran National. He lived in Nelson Federal Correction Complex, in Florida. Maximum security. That was pretty naughty.
According to records, Julio said nothing to anyone throughout his trial, including his lawyers. They couldn’t determine if his crime was gun running or terrorism, so they went with terrorism. I wasn’t sure I understood how such different crimes could be confused. I’d have to get Legal to explain this to me. Another thing to put on my to-do list. That was only last September. Julio has been in Nelson about four months now. Two months ago Maria as Consuela Hervas was buying the house here on Silver Lake. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. So Julio was locked-down in maximum security in Florida; his wife was up here watching me in DC. What was the connection? Was there a connection?
I wrote down my thoughts. Spyder had shown me that if you write something out, you use more areas of your brain: see it, hear it, feel it, speak it…the more brain parts in action, the better the chances you can connect the dots and puzzle something out. Okay, what did I know? I knew Spyder had been working on a case I’d puzzled for him that lead to the king-pin, Marcos Sylanos. Sylanos was still at large. The piece of the puzzle I worked on had to do with gun running into Colombia with a stop off in Honduras. But now we had Schumann, Richy, Brennon, and Babcock involved. That was quite a metamorphosis.
Another tack: I knew there was a player that distantly connected me to Marcos Sylanos and that was Beth Sylanos, aka Mrs. Agnew. She was married to Marcos’ cousin, Amando.
Looked like Amando got himself killed in a federal raid about seven years ago. At that time, Beth turned informant and was hiding in my apartment complex, as Mrs. Agnew, where I babysat for her two children. She knew that Spyder and I were connected, but probably not how. . .I tapped my fingers on my desk – curioser and curioser. Beth left the country when I was sixteen to go live under yet another assumed name. She wasn’t traceable - unless Command started sharing.
If I followed this connection – boy did this feel tenuous – Maria was friends with Beth way back when. Could Beth have told her about Spyder and about me? Would Maria remember something as mundane as that all these years later? Yeah, that thread felt weak. Maybe Maria didn’t have any clue that we had Beth in common…
I couldn’t find any direct association between me and Maria, or me and Julio Rodriguez. From read
ing the file, I didn’t think that Spyder had any direct association with them either. What did Maria want with me? Did she think I knew something? Was she trying to help her husband? Some kind of exchange of information for a lesser sentence? The time for negotiating and bargaining was over. Julio was sentenced to a hundred years in maximum with no chance of parole. Post-9-11 our courts weren’t messing around with would-be terrorists.
My mind needed some time to let the information marinate. I marked the file and put it in my bottom desk drawer rather than my file cabinet, hiding it among some other tickler files I had in there, and locked it up. I didn’t want someone coming upon this information by accident. I needed more time, and I didn’t want Striker or Command to take away my candy.
My girls and I went for a jog, and then went back to the barracks to make a light supper for Striker and me. This was going to be our last night together before he left on his classified mission.
In the kitchen, I moved the mail and newspaper off the counter where Striker had stacked them as he ran in and out earlier today. Underneath was an artist pad with four graceful hands drawn in colored pencils. Each hand wore a ring. As I looked at them, I realized that these were the designs that Striker had offered at the New Year’s Eve party.
They were stunning. Absolutely my aesthetic and delicate enough for my small fingers. I looked them over closely and imagined each one on my hand. I decided that I liked the first one. It spiraled gently, giving the feel of a yin yang or an infinity figure. Striker had been able to give the impression of these timeless symbols, without being overt about it. It was more of a suggestion. Yes, lovely.
I was holding the sketchbook up when Striker came in.
He paused. “I hope it’s okay I did that.”
“Striker, you are so talented. Really, wonderfully talented. What a special gift you’ve given me.”
He walked over to stand close enough that I had to tilt my head back to see him. “When you’re ready. At your own pace.”
I slipped my wedding and engagement rings off of my hand. “I’m ready. I like the first one you drew.” I placed my rings into Striker’s open hand.
“I’ll take good care of them.”
“And me?” My voice warbled uncertainly. “You’ll take good care of me?”
“Of course.” His eyebrows came together.
“You won’t break my heart? You won’t go off and get yourself killed?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could suck them back in. How selfish of me.
Striker folded me into him, his arms strong and capable around me. His hand cradled my head as he pressed my cheek into his chest. “Chica, I promise, I’ll do everything in my power to come home to you safely. I love you. I only want good things for you.”
The evening felt tense, though we acted as if it didn’t. It was time for me to tell Striker how I felt about him - maybe even define our relationship. Why was it so hard to acknowledge the obvious? I love you, Striker. It was there in my head. It was definitely in my body. I was confused by the barricade I had thrown between us. Why did I do that?
After sitting in miserable silence, eating our dinner, I tried to at least broach the subject of my living arrangements. “Consuela looks like she’s really gone. I’ve been researching her niece Tammy. She’s innocuous. There’s nothing on the surveillance that indicates Consuela has any contact with her right now. I was wondering how you’d feel about me moving back home.”
“You don’t want to be here?” Striker asked.
“I love it here, but only when you’re here with me.”
That made him smile. He reached for my hand.
“This is your place - not mine. I don’t know how well I fit here without you. I miss my neighborhood - my neighbors are my family. I’m going to have to distract myself to keep from worrying about you constantly.”
He laughed softly. “That’s a switch.”
“Yeah, I guess it is. So I can go?”
“Are you asking my permission?”
“More like your approval.” I said.
I could see his cogs whirring. “And are you asking me from an Iniquus point of view, or personal?” Boxes again.
“Both. I want to make sure you think this is a safe move strategically. I also don’t want to have you worrying about me unnecessarily. I’ll stay here if it helps you.”
“Because I love you?” His gaze became intense.
I was silent for a long minute trying to get my mouth to say the words, “No, because I love you, Striker.” But I couldn’t do it. Instead, I said, “Because it’s costly to repair a transmission.”
Twenty-Eight
At the break of dawn, Striker rubbed my back to wake me. “Lexi, I have to leave.”
“No.” I moaned into my pillow, rolling toward him, arms outstretched. He gathered me up and hugged me tightly.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he whispered into my ear.
“Be safe, okay?” I clung to him, trying to tamp down the sensation of foreboding that made my stomach clench. Please don’t go, I wanted to beg. I didn’t want to jinx the mission, though, so I bit my tongue. Nothing I said would stop him from heading out anyway.
“You be safe, Chica. I love you.” He brushed the hair out of my face and gave me a kiss that made me know, right down to my toes, how much he meant his words.
After he left, I dragged myself up, into the shower, over to work and through the morning.
At noon, Gater went home with me. I made something for lunch. Gater wolfed his food down; I made circles with mine on my plate. We washed up together, and Gater hauled the trash outside. When he came in, he found me staring vacantly out my living room window.
“Hey, you okay?”
I was moping, feeling a kindred spirit in the gray day, watching the rain drizzling down. “Yeah.” I sighed. “The weather’s a real bummer.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you were bummed about,” Gater said with a grin.
“Don’t.” I held up a scolding finger.
“Don’t what?” Gater’s grin widened.
“Just don’t go there with me. I can’t help that I’m worried.” I rested my forehead on the cool window pane, and drew designs in the condensation. “I wish one of our team was with Striker. I don’t know the guys who’re with him, and you’re only as good as the guys behind you.”
“Ma’am, if it makes you feel any better, I know the men that are out there. They’re all capable and honorable.”
I turned back to Gater. “Thanks. I’ll tell you what, let’s distract me. The floors are cured in the duplex now, and we can move you in next door.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Gater, I’m not your client anymore; I have no rank over you, and I’m younger than you are. Why do you still ‘ma’am’ me?”
My question seemed to catch Gater by surprise. I could see his mind searching for a reason. “I don’t know, maybe habit? Naw. I don’t think it were out of habit. I guess maybe I like to say it because I feel kind of like it’s affectionate to say ‘ma’am’ without being disrespectful. You know like Striker calling you Chica…well no, you know I ain’t saying that I feel affectionate about you like Striker feels affectionate about you. I feel different affectionate about you, like you’re a special-person-to-me kind of affectionate.”
Poor Gater. I don’t think he had a lot of practice discussing his feelings. It was an honor that he was willing to stumble, red-faced and shuffling, through all that.
“I feel special-person-to-me kind of affection toward you too, Gater. You are dear to my heart.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Aw, that was a little ray of sunshine breaking through my emotional storm clouds.
Iniquus maintained a storehouse full of furniture and all of the household-y kinds of things people would need: plates, linens, cleaning supplies…they were ready for the taking. Sometimes an operative needed to do covert work, and they’d have to stage their operation with the right furnitu
re to play their role. A junkie, for instance, wouldn’t move in with a matching bedroom suite, and an executive wouldn’t move in with crate furniture.
Gater got to choose furniture for a working-class neighborhood — fairly new, matchy-matchy, medium quality that all but screamed, “I’m a single male.” Okay, it screamed, “I’m a single male on the make,” but out of deference to his relationship with Amy, I was going to leave that last part alone. The men loaded up a truck and had Gater all moved in and set up by nightfall. Luckily, the rain had stopped.
Gater and I quickly fell into a rhythm. We drove to the office and worked regular hours there - or mostly regular hours based on what puzzles landed on my desk. Since Striker was out, our team wasn’t doing any field work. On a few occasions, we needed to stay in the barracks; but for the most part, we were home by six. I cooked dinner; Gater did KP.
The rhythm broke when Striker called to tell me he was heading home. I did a little happy dance right there on the phone with him. Apparently, a puzzle I’d recently solved showed there were a lot of players at risk on the case he was working. Too many good guys were in the way for him to take down the bad-guys successfully. The agencies were going to have to put a different plan into place, get some of the hands out of the cookie jar. Turned out that one agency was using us to play another agency. It made no sense. We were all supposed to be on the same team, right? Turf wars. Well, Iniquus was handing the case back; we don’t play bully on the playground.
“So, I’ll be home very late tonight, maybe around two? I miss you. I want to see you bad.” His voice was softly urgent and made me think…Well, what I thought was that Striker Rheas would be getting a well-deserved hero’s welcome that would make us both very happy.
“Me too,” I said. Yes, Little Miss Webster was ready for her relationship to be defined now, thank you very much. I hugged myself in anticipation.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“Absolutely. I’m impatient to see you.”
