by Gwynn White
She adjusted the damp towel. The corners of her smile sagged. Her first lie. But did she want him to see that? Want him to know she was telegraphing a falsehood? Deception was the mission statement of this setup, including the woman in front of him. A lie within a lie.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“I am Dova.”
“Dova? Lovely name. It means dove?”
“Morning dew.”
“Very nice. When will Micah be here, Dova?”
Her smile was genuine, unperturbed. “Can I offer you coffee?”
She walked to the lonely door at the back of the room, steps measured and decisive, and returned with a cup. The oils swirled on the mocha surface. He wasn’t in the mood, but sipped out of curiosity. Cream, no sugar.
Just like he took it.
“We are very sorry for Mrs. Grimm,” Dova said. “We understand why she would come here, of course.”
“Because you have connections with the Maze?”
“We deal with high-end technology, Mr. Hunter. Sensory enhancement. Naturally anyone in a state of hysteria would seek out an establishment such as ours.”
“She was told to ask for Micah.”
“You’ve made that clear.”
“Did you forget that I’m with the FBI? I can look him up, find him in a database. When I do, I’ll come back with friends. We won’t have coffee.”
Her smile grew on one side, eyes walking on him. A faint tickle fluttered over his scalp, the harbinger of something deeper, more insistent. He didn’t break eye contact, resisted blinking. Her smile deepened.
She went to the glass wall, observing the crawling traffic. He wondered how many accidents she’d caused just by standing there.
“Micah is an associate.”
“Your boss?”
“He controls such things.”
“What things, Dova?”
“All things are connected, Mr. Hunter. Events, people, natural phenomenon… they are intertwined like fabric weaved together. Pull a thread and the effects ripple throughout existence.”
He shook his head, clearing his throat. “What did he do with Grey Grimm? That’s all I want to know.”
“He did nothing. You must ask Grey what he did to himself.”
“Where is Grey?”
“I believe you are asking questions to which you already know the answers.”
Her allure returned to wrap around him, tentacles that suctioned tightly, penetrating his senses, his brain. His groin. The image of taking her on the bamboo floor unreeled, a pornographic display for those stuck in traffic.
“I would like to show you our products. You have made an appointment. Perhaps there is something that will interest you.”
She took the coffee from him and placed it on the floor, then hooked her arm around his and guided him around the perimeter. Their lazy footsteps echoed. She pointed out the latest iterations of cochlear implants that connected with brainwaves for thought control as well as Wi-Fi speakers; there were visual enhancements that did something similar, purporting to project informational holograms with depth-of-field touch capacity. A mind net, she described, was the newest line of nervous system modulations. It put the user in control. Pain could be dialed back. Pleasure heightened.
She squeezed his bicep. “I am boring you.”
“I’m more interested in seeing the rest of your products.”
“It is what you see that we have, Mr. Hunter.” The smile.
“You show only by appointments to high-end customers. This here is just window dressing.” He waved at the room. “Pretend I’m wealthy and know nothing of the FBI. What would you show me?”
“I’m showing you everything, Mr. Hunter.”
“Show me what’s back there.” He nodded at the back door. “The awareness leaping tanks.”
“I’m afraid those are rumors, Mr. Hunter.”
“You mean a psychiatrist can’t send a wealthy patient to you for a little dip?”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Indulge me, then. Just crack the door, let me take a peek. I won’t even walk inside.”
“We could accommodate your request, but not today.”
“Then tomorrow.”
“I can let you know, Mr. Hunter.”
“I know it sounds like I’m asking, Dova.”
She let go and stepped back. “We have nothing to hide, Mr. Hunter. This is what we offer. It is for you to see.”
Her smile remained. The back of Hunter’s head began to tingle; a faint itch niggled beneath the scalp and reached for the scar on his forehead, stabbing it with a phantom needle. He flinched. Even made a little sound. A valve in his sinus opened.
A warm salty gush flowed over his lips.
“You’re bleeding, Mr. Hunter.” She pulled a folded tissue from her bosom like grown men came in with bloody noses all the time. It smelled of sweet perspiration.
He tipped his head back. The ceiling was white and curved at the corners, lending it the illusion of endless white sky. Eternity.
“I can take you there, Mr. Hunter, through that door,” she whispered. “But it’s not what you want to see right now.”
“And what do I want to see?”
She cradled the back of his head, wiping the blood from his lip. She stepped back, palming the tissue. “I would like to invite you to a demonstration party.”
“Here?”
“No.” She shook her head. Don’t be silly. “I will send a car. You’ll see everything you want to see, Mr. Hunter. I assure you. Afterwards, if you are not satisfied, you can make your calls to walk through the door at the back of this room. I won’t waste your time.”
“There won’t be a need to go through the door. You will have made arrangements by then.”
“Perhaps.” She took his arm and walked him to the front. “A car will pick you up at the hotel.”
Hunter stopped to take another card from the stand. He pocketed it with the others. Find a way to please yourself.
“Can I ask you something?” she said. “What does your name mean?”
“It’s just a name. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Is that right?”
“Names don’t mean much where I’m from.”
“And where are you from?”
“Nowhere.”
“Interesting,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you tonight. And I will show you everything, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps you can show me something in return.”
He could be mistaken, but her double-talk was telling him something entirely different. If she thought he could be distracted by her slim figure and dangerous curves, she was right. This was unusual for him, out of his normal experience. People went out of their way to avoid a federal agent, especially those that peddled technological trade. They made great efforts to cut conversation short.
The rain had given way to a light drizzle.
Hunter stood on the steps. Her footsteps echoed through the glass door. When he looked back, she had already made her way across the room. The itch in the back of his head had calmed down, but something still bothered him. A lot was bothering him, actually, but something in particular was front and center.
Perhaps you can show me something.
He could’ve sworn she glanced at his forehead when she said that.
15
Hunter
After the Punch
A call arrived from the front desk.
Dova had said they would send a car. He’d never told her where. It still bothered him that she knew his breakfast. A bagel and orange juice wasn’t exactly original, but slightly beyond a lucky guess. He was being watched and she wanted him to know it.
He arrived in the lobby, waited with a clear view of the street, and pulled a postcard from his overcoat. The brochure Dova called it, something that carried less information than a fortune cookie. An address, a tagline and a bunch of random lines.
You see what you see.
Ther
e was a challenge in it, something he wasn’t seeing. It reminded him of those colorful static posters that contained three-dimensional images. To see them, you had to look at it differently, focus just right and the image would emerge. Some people had an easier time than others.
Hunter wasn’t one of them.
He looked at it from various angles, blurred the edges, crossed his eyes, put his nose in the center, placed the card on the other side of the room. Even took a picture and converted it into a negative.
“Mr. Hunter?” the clerk called. “Your car has arrived.”
A black sedan was at the curb. Hunter pulled his stocking cap down to his eyebrows. He checked his nose for blood. Two nosebleeds in one day. Perhaps it had something to do with the weather.
Or something else.
The driver waited at the back door. He was Caucasian and middle-aged, a freshly shaved scalp. Tiny flecks of moisture drifted about, a thick mist settling on the waxed hood of the car.
“Where we going?” Hunter asked.
“We’ll arrive in approximately ninety minutes.”
This was unusual, a federal agent attending a function like this, but they invited him. Perhaps he was walking into a trap. Or maybe I’m already trapped.
The driver didn’t say a word during the trip. His hands remained on the steering wheel. No radio to pass the time, just the countryside. It was dark when they pulled down a narrow road.
The massive canopies intertwined, blotting out the stars and moon, a cage of knobby branches. His phone had dropped reception at some point during the trip.
Strings of lights greeted them at the end of a winding road. A sprawling oak was draped with dappled light, the kind of tree found in southern climates with moss and resurrection fern, certainly not something he expected to see in these parts.
The driveway swung around the tree. There was a one-story ranch, a green metal roof and a generous porch where ceiling fans turned lazily and people milled about. Someone opened the car door. Hunter stepped out with umbrella in hand, but the air was humid and the sky was clear. It was the first time he’d seen the stars since arriving in the city.
“Recording devices are not allowed.” The man that opened the door was not large, but the edge of his voice was sharp. His complexion was the color of putty.
“I was invited.”
“Of course you were, Mr. Hunter. We ask that you make no attempts to record the weekend.”
The weekend?
“Mr. Hunter.” Dova descended the wide stairs in a long red dress, a color that matched her lips and nails. “Welcome.”
Hand on his forearm, she rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. He remained stoic and professional, but if she slid her hand to his crotch, he wasn’t sure he could stop her.
“I didn’t realize this was a party,” he said.
“Oh, do not worry. This event is for many people.”
“Do your friends know I’m with the government?”
“Ah, you met Blair.” She smiled at the man, who was harassing the next car in line. “It is a formality, that is all. Your technology won’t work; it is impossible to record. You may tell your friends at the bureau everything you see here, we just prefer you not record the details. Trade secrets, you see. You will probably find this boring, you know so much already.”
She winked.
“Then why invite me?”
“You want to see, Mr. Hunter.” She hooked his arm and guided him to the front steps. “Would you like a drink?”
They climbed the steps. The house was wide and luxurious, but the single story seemed out of place for the implied opulence and number of people. Most were speaking English; there were various accents and a few foreign languages. They drank martinis and scotch and wine. A few took sips from longneck bottles of beer.
He recognized no one. And no one was interested in him.
“Strange crowd,” he said.
“How so?”
He hinted at the beer, the man laughing at a bawdy joke. “Thought you only catered to real money.”
“We are not prejudiced, Mr. Hunter. Our mission is to help everyone.”
“Who can afford it.”
“We are a business, yes.”
“That’s doing quite well.”
She squeezed his arm. “Perhaps you chose the wrong line of work.”
“I don’t like seeing people get hurt.”
She reminded him of the nervous system modulation product line, the promise of pain control and heightened pleasure. This was the next step in human evolution, no longer slave to primal urges and outdated nervous responses. He’d heard that argument for technology before. He wasn’t buying it.
He’d seen too many people hurt.
He was one of them, at the mercy of others when he was a child. The scars were still raised, the wounds still raw. The itch still real.
“People want to matter, Mr. Hunter.”
“And that’s why all these people are here? To matter?”
“Among other reasons.” She stopped at the front doors and stepped back. Isn’t it obvious?
“May I take your coat?” a woman in formal attire asked.
Hunter stripped off his black overcoat without breaking eye contact with Dova.
“Your cap?” the woman asked.
“No. Thank you.” Rude or not, he was keeping it. His past was advertised on his forehead, something that rarely mattered to him. But here, it seemed prudent to keep it secret.
“Have you eaten?” Dova asked.
“You tell me.”
She laughed. “Breakfast was a lucky guess, Mr. Hunter.”
“And the hotel?”
“I called around, yes. I suggest for future anonymity you use a different name when checking in.”
“Is that all I have to do to remain hidden, change my name?”
“Perhaps.”
She pushed the doors open to enter a ballroom. The floor reflected a massive chandelier. White-clothed tables were stationed in the corners with displays of seafood, salads and desserts.
A woman from the staff whispered in Dova’s ear. Hunter caught the syllables of another language. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Hunter, I will only be a moment. Please enjoy the food and surroundings.”
She was ushered to a doorway on the left.
People gathered in small groups, drinks in hand or small plates. Hunter stood like an introvert shoved on stage for the very first time. Various works of art were displayed on the walls, sculpture on the tables. A large piece was centered beneath the chandelier, a larger than life depiction of Zeus holding a lightning bolt. The Greek god, the ruler of the skies, the father of gods and men.
He moved around the room, stopping at paintings, feigning interest as he looked at faces, memorizing details. He paused at the doorway Dova had gone through, a metal railing spiraling down a stairwell.
A painting grabbed his attention.
It was to the left of the door. A similar one was on the other side. He wasn’t interested in the arts, certainly not abstract, but there was something different about this one. Slashes and drips of vivid colors camouflaged a pattern of lines.
Hunter reflexively felt for his coat pocket.
The pattern was the same as the one on the back of the postcards. There was no address, no tagline hidden in the seemingly random spatter of paint. Long lines of yellow were among the dashes, like a chalk line of paint had been snapped across the canvas, a fractured element breaking up space.
Or hinting at it.
“Fan of the abstract?” Dova was at his side.
“Who lives here?”
“The business.”
“The business that has no name?”
“Is a rose not a rose?”
Dova cracked the seal on a bottle of water. She did it slowly, let him hear it, let him know it was new. She took a sip and put it in his hand.
“Let me show you something.”
Bifold glass doors were open along the back. A breeze gently
fluttered the tablecloths. It smelled of earth and water. Dova took his arm and led him to an expansive balcony. The glass railing did not hinder the view to an endless body of water, the horizon sharp and flexing beneath of darkened sky. It couldn’t be the ocean, but there was nothing to say otherwise.
“I love it out here.” She closed her eyes, inhaling. “Much better than the city.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
She paused for several seconds, gazing at the stars in the water before turning her dark eyes on him. “It is how a relationship begins.”
“I’m the government.”
“Why do you continue reminding me?”
“Because this is unusual.”
“We have nothing to hide, Mr. Hunter. Everything is for you to see.”
He chuckled. “You want me to see, is that it?”
“What do you see, Mr. Hunter?”
He looked around. Men polluted the air with cigars. Women laughed. An elderly woman was leaning on the railing, drinking in the view. Three stories below, there was a pool. Palm trees rustled in a rogue breeze. Palm trees don’t grow here.
Dova dug through a tiny purse to find a thin cigarette. She cupped her hands to light it. The smell of cloves streamed from pursed lips.
“When the mood strikes, I smoke.” She took another drag. “Have you experienced that, Mr. Hunter? When the mood cannot be denied. You must have it. Like an itch that must be scratched.”
He felt like a child who had wet his pants, attempting to hide behind his hands. That was not a lucky guess. There were parts of Hunter’s life that he kept hidden, even from himself; memories he locked away to forget. Parts that itched from time to time, that wanted to be remembered. That needed scratched.
A bell rang.
The patrons on the balcony extinguished their cigars and began walking inside the ballroom, forming a line that led to a spiral staircase on each side of the room. The elderly woman remained on the balcony.
“You’re ready for this, Mr. Hunter.” Dova ground the cigarette beneath her heel. She said it as if they’d been waiting for him, that the time was right. That all of this was for him, despite the crowd.
He lingered outside, unsure whether to follow or not. He was being played, the moves laid out for him. Only traps were at the end of those paths. But he wanted to know; curiosity had sunk its hooks. And all these people couldn’t be in on it.
