by Jade Powers
Wendy smiled. It was nice to have a friend who could take her out of her own thoughts. She said, “What is it?”
“Every person in John’s note is dead,” Temper spilled the words in a tumble. They fell like shards of glass on Wendy’s soul. Each new death insulted her personally, although Wendy had no direct connection to them other than John.
It wasn’t a case of Temper’s dramatic flair. This was huge. Wendy felt her breath catch in her chest. What the hell should she do? She said, “I sent that floppy to a dozen agencies. Someone will figure out that I have the original.”
“Maybe you’re okay now. I mean since it’s already sent. It would be like shooting the messenger a week after the message is already delivered.” Temper said with forced cheerfulness.
Temper was just trying to be helpful. But when she mentioned death to the messenger, cold fear slithered down Wendy’s spine. She said, “What do I do? They’ve already killed four people.”
“Maybe the deaths were legit. Only one of the families fought the findings. You should get a dog for added protection. You always wanted a beagle.” Temper’s last comment, if meant to soothe Wendy, only upset her more. She didn’t want a dog. Not now when her whole life was in disarray.
“I don’t think a dog is the answer right now,” Wendy said.
“Come on. You need a companion, a little buddy to pet and cuddle after a hard day at work. And he can bark at people coming up your walk.”
“Thanks Temper, I’ll think about it.” That was as close to a lie as Wendy had ever told her best friend. She knew full well she wasn’t going to dog shop. Her beagle dream went all the way back to junior high. It wasn’t relevant anymore.
A dog. Wendy shook her head. She didn’t think a dog would stop a government assassin. Or a corporate one for that matter. If someone broke into her house, Wendy would just leave an orphaned pet. Then Temper would be adding a beagle to her collection. Besides, what would a beagle do to an intruder, bay like a wolf until he runs?
Temper rattled off a few details of the stories. Mack Striker, who supposedly shot himself, left the garage door wide open, and a neighbor heard someone drive off just minutes after the sound of the gunshot. Temper added, “Maybe now’s the time to call your husband’s other friends, the ones with the military experience and security know-how?”
Wendy couldn’t imagine calling any of John’s friends. She didn’t really know them well. She wanted to deal with this on her own. Wendy said, “That makes less sense than getting a dog.”
“You wound me. Keep thinking about it. I gotta go. My shift starts soon. For god’s sakes, be careful.”
Wendy rubbed her eyes. Temper could talk the wings off a chicken. The evening stretched out before her, leaving a pit where her husband had been. Somehow she was learning to fill those hours.
She logged onto the computer to play Age of Empires. Computer games helped her forget, even more than books. Sometimes she could go hours without remembering to be sad. Not tonight, though. She barely started a new game when that little mosquito buzz in the back of her brain told her to call John’s friend, Drake. The sooner the better.
The thought wouldn’t leave her alone. Finally Wendy said out loud, “John, I’m not going to call him. Even if it’s not a coincidence, no one’s coming after me. I’ll be fine.”
It was probably a good thing no one else could hear her. Sometimes she thought that maybe John was speaking to her mind from beyond the grave. Then she laughed at herself and figured that his death had driven her a little crazy. Her own brain pattern had just picked up his manner of speaking, and she was talking to herself in his voice.
That was the thing—she could hear his voice in her head as if he were actually speaking to her. Maybe it was only a compilation of memories from eight years of marriage. Maybe John was reaching to Wendy from beyond the grave...
IN ADDITION TO THE floppy disks Wendy had sent, she kept a copy hidden in her purse, one in the coat closet with the board games, and a floppy disk upstairs in the master bathroom cupboard hidden under the towels. She saw this as insurance, but chuckled to herself that she was being paranoid.
Little did she realize, she had not been paranoid enough.
When Wendy walked into the house on Friday after her shift, she found it completely trashed. The lock on her door had been jimmied with no indication of tampering. When she put the key in, Wendy realized that it was unlocked. She pushed open the door. The house was a total mess.
Her books were all pulled out of the bookshelves and lay in ugly heaps on the floor. Her favorite books from Debbie Macomber to Heather Graham had been discarded without care for the covers. Wendy loved her hardbacks. During those many long nights when she missed John with a fury that sought to destroy her, Wendy curled up with her favorite authors. Absorbed in the stories, she felt better. Seeing her precious treasure treated with such indignity added insult to injury, for knowing that her husband had been murdered over a file on a computer hurt her heart like nothing else. And now, John’s killer had invaded her space.
Wendy moved past the living room. Her dishes were out of the cupboard and on the floor, pans, shattered glass, and Corningware scattered across the linoleum. They pulled everything out, without thought or regard to the item’s value.
In John’s office, Wendy discovered things missing. His computer was gone, as was anything in his desk, except for the stapler and hole punch. The board games had been dumped in a pile on the floor, and the floppy she had hidden with the games had been taken. Wendy ran upstairs. The upstairs was a disaster. They had stolen Wendy’s computer and found the second hidden floppy as well.
Temper would start work in three hours. She was probably asleep, but if ever there was a time to call a friend, this was it. Wendy called Temper’s number, but it went to the answering machine. “Hey, Temper, are you there? Pick up. It’s Wendy. Anyway, someone trashed my house. I think those disks I sent got someone’s attention. I’m going to call the police. Just wanted to tell you to be careful.”
Grabbing her purse, Wendy checked for the floppy she’d hidden there. She just had to look at it. Relieved that it still existed, she held it in her hand for a moment before putting it back. It was the last one. All her copies had been found and taken or mailed out. She really needed to make more copies. She hoped that Temper would call her back soon. The alternative would be to see if the library would allow her to get onto their system. She didn’t want to copy sensitive files at the library.
With a sigh, Wendy sat down. She really wanted to talk to Temper before calling the detective. He had seemed dismissive last week when Wendy told him that she thought John had been murdered. Wendy didn’t want to call him again so soon, but it was apparent that whoever had broken into her home had done so to get that floppy, which confirmed a motive for murder. He had to listen this time.
Now that Wendy knew she had a copy, she called the detective. This time he wasn’t at all dismissive. Of course now that she was down to her last floppy, the detective asked, “Do you have another copy of that floppy? It seems to have disappeared from evidence.”
Wendy had never lied to a police officer before. As an upright and honest citizen, she had never felt the need, but this time, with her last copy in her purse and someone cleaning up in a big way, she didn’t think that honesty would protect the truth. She said, “Someone turned my whole house upside down. I’ll have to check. They stole both of our computers and John’s files. I know a few of the floppies I had saved were stolen. I’m not sure if they got all of them.”
It was the best she could come up with. She would make copies first and then turn one in.
“We’ll have someone down there for evidence and to take a statement. Have you touched anything?”
Wendy had to laugh. She had touched everything at some point. She said, “I just got home. I’ve opened cupboards and checked everything, but I haven’t done any cleaning up.”
“Good. Leave everything as it is. I’m sending so
meone to your address.”
It was a long and exhausting evening. Wendy cooperated fully with the officers, with the exception of turning over the last floppy. They took her statement, and she made sure to remind them of John’s death and her suspicion that it was murder, just in case the homicide detective hadn’t passed the information to them.
Wendy called in sick on Thursday. She was stressed and tired. And she still had to clean her entire house and set it to rights.
WENDY FLOPPED ONTO the couch Friday evening completely wiped out. Bad enough that work had been one string of complaints after another, but Shelly was annoyed that Wendy refused to work Saturday in trade. Setting the house to rights took hours upon hours on Thursday, and Wendy needed her days off. The police hadn’t found any evidence to speak of. The one point of note was that her husband’s death was reopened as a possible homicide.
Temper’s information was beyond scary when added to this new burglary. That buzz in Wendy’s brain had turned into a crescendo. She still wasn’t about to call Drake.
A long time ago John and Drake had served together. They had since gone their separate ways when Drake inherited his father’s biotech company, and John joined General McFarland’s team. They met every now and then for drinks when they were in the same city.
Wendy and Drake exchanged pleasantries before discussing the reason for her call, “I found a floppy drive that implicates several high-level officials and corporate heads with human experimentation. I turned a copy into the local police, sent copies through the post office to the attorney general for Arizona and Colorado where the worst of the atrocities took place, and I sent two copies to the FBI. What else should I do?”
Drake said, “I believe Carson Nichols would be willing to come out. Would you be okay with having a security guard for a while?”
“Do you think I need one?” Wendy wrapped the cord around her hand. She could feel the tension in her forehead. She was going to get wrinkles at this rate.
“Yes. If you’re not comfortable having him stay with you, I can send Sherry, but Carson is the best security agent in the business, short of pulling Sven out of retirement. He will behave himself. I can vouch for him.” Drake paused. He sounded like he would go on, but Wendy interrupted him.
Wendy said, “Carson came to the funeral. I would rather have him than someone I’ve never met. There’s plenty of space in my house. It’s a mess right now with everything the intruders did to it, but I should have things to rights before he arrives.”
“I need to speak to him first, but I’m sure he’ll be okay if things are topsy-turvy for a while,” Drake said. In the background Wendy heard a baby start to cry. Drake said, “I need to go. Hannah went shopping, so I’ve got baby duty for a couple of hours.”
“Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll follow up and let you know when Carson is available.”
Wendy hung up the phone. She felt better taking a new direction, rooting out her husband’s killer. It gave her purpose. The danger gave her a thrill that might have been terror and might have been excitement. She felt alive.
The doors and windows were all locked. Even so, Wendy would feel safer if there were someone else with her. She wished she had asked Temper to crash at her place. Night had fallen, and Wendy couldn’t help but worry about who might be watching from the darkness.
CARSON RENTED A CAR at the airport. He’d met John’s widow last year. She was a pretty brunette with brown eyes, a cute pixie nose, and round cheeks. Back then, her eyes had been red from crying, and her mother had been a constant presence at her side. Carson felt a flutter of nerves when he pulled his car into her driveway. He never got nervous on a mission. Apparently a mission involving a pretty woman was a different thing.
Carson stood at her doorway and hesitated to actually ring the door bell. Ridiculous. Even if he had been attracted to John’s wife since the first time he had met her back when John was alive, he would never have done anything about it. Number one, married women were off limits. Number two, John was a good friend. Staying alone with her after her husband’s death...that would be a temptation, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Carson stared as if the door bell was going to grow a pair of hands and throttle him.
Finally, he stabbed the buzzer.
Wendy opened the door as if she’d been standing on the other side. Her lips quirked up in a hesitant smile. She said, “I was wondering when you were going to buzz in.”
So she was standing on the other side of the door all along. Carson said, “You made me wait?”
Wendy stepped out of the way and ushered Carson in. “Yes. I didn’t want to startle you, and then I was curious why you weren’t ringing the doorbell. Are you hungry? I have homemade chicken pot pie in the oven.”
Wendy liked to save time with various things. When she made chicken pot pie, she inevitably made apple or blackberry pie as well. As soon as the chicken pie came out of the oven, an apple pie went in. Wendy enjoyed having someone else to cook for again.
“I’m starving, and it smells divine,” Carson carried in a couple of large duffel bags in olive green, probably from the military surplus store.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll show you the guest bedroom. We put a television and VCR in there, but they were destroyed,” Wendy said by way of apology.
“I’m sorry to hear it. Other than the burglary, have you noticed anything else strange? Anyone following you? Anything out of the ordinary at work?” Carson asked as he followed Wendy up the stairs.
Despite Drake’s warnings to Carson, the house was in good shape. Wendy must have worked late to get everything cleaned.
They ate at the dining room table. The table would comfortably seat four but only had two chairs. The dining room was cheerful with blue checkered curtains and matching geese hand towels. After they had been seated and started to eat, Wendy said, “Did Drake catch you up on everything that’s been happening?”
“The basics. Your house was broken into and John’s computer and files were taken,” Carson said.
“I think they killed John. I’m going to trace these files back to the source, find out who knew my husband had them. There can’t be that many people who knew what was going on,” Wendy sipped her Martinelli’s. It was a sparkling apple cider that she favored. Carson drank beer.
“You don’t want to get too deep into this. If they killed John, they won’t hesitate to kill you.” Carson said. He watched as fire lit Wendy’s eyes. Perhaps he would have to talk Wendy out of her plans using another method.
Wendy said, “I’m not backing down. I sent what I had to a dozen different people. If anything happens to me, the agencies should know to look deeper. I’m going to find out who did this to John, I’m not going to stop until I have justice.” Wendy said.
Carson admired the strength in her resolve. Her face was thinner than he remembered. Wendy had lost weight since the funeral. Sometimes grief could do that to a person. She was still as pretty as ever. He said, “Drake had a few ideas about where to start. When we’re done eating, I can show you everything on my laptop. Do you know where John got those files?”
Wendy shook her head, “I have no idea.”
“What about any business trips?”
In between bites Wendy said, “He went to Denver three months before he died. He was upset when he came home. He wouldn’t tell me why. He said that security level clearance applied to the situation even though he was out of the service,” Wendy wondered whether that was true or a lie. Carson would know if it sounded off. She had never thought John would lie to her outright, but since the truth was dangerous, he might have avoided telling her everything to protect her.
“Did you read the whole file you sent?” Carson found himself enjoying dinner, even if they were talking about security clearance and files. It was weird. He didn’t fraternize during work. And this was an assignment, plain and simple. But the attraction didn’t diminish for the focus on business.
Carson pushed down his interest to concentrate on the problem at hand.
“No. When I got to the picture of that little girl, I shut it down and stopped looking.” Wendy said.
In John’s files, Wendy had run into the story of a child who had been part of the experimentation for four months. According to the files, she was a runaway who fully agreed to participate in the studies. According to missing person’s, she had been kidnapped off the road, kicking and screaming. There was no doubt based on what John had found. That girl had been traumatized. If she agreed to anything, it was under duress.
That was when Wendy stopped reading. It bothered her too much to continue. Someone had taken kids off the street and put them into an institution, forcing them into surgeries with robotic implants and technologies that in a few cases, stripped their will. The file read like a horror story. The few case studies she had read before stopping mentioned three children under the age of ten.
The other reason Wendy stopped reading was personal. Too personal. She couldn’t believe that John could read that file, could know the contents, and not do anything about it. Her entire image of him, her trust, her faith, all of it came into question when she read that file, when she knew that real people suffered under the strange corporate-military complex that surrounded new weapons technology.
Carson knew the entire story of the girl. There were a dozen more children like her across the United States. He had looked her up. The girl had escaped and was currently living with her parents in a small town in Pennsylvania.
“The guy in charge of Colorado, Colonel Evans, is being court-martialed for a variety of offenses. The weird part about all this is that John went to Colorado before the base changed hands, but Evans was imprisoned when John died. The timeline doesn’t make sense,” Carson said. He tapped his fork on his plate, deep in thought.
