by Fiona Quinn
Frith shook Spencer’s extended hand. “Thank you, Mr. Spencer. If she is dead, then I offer my condolences to you all. I wanted you to know though; Omega is still on the hunt. There’s a deep pocket behind this. No one on my side thinks she’s dead.”
Spencer’s forehead creased. “You think I should put another team out there?”
Frith shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t want her to be dead. I certainly don’t want Omega to get to her. I got a peek at the file – it’s an extraordinary rendition order and final tap. So if they get to her, they’ll torture her for information until she expires.”
“Any idea why?” Spencer asked.
“None. Getting anything at all has been tricky. There would be consequences if Omega found out I intervened. I’m only doing this because she saved my neck. I don’t know that I can manage any further contact.”
“Understood. That deep pocket you mentioned. Any idea who’s wearing the pants? FBI?”
Frith shook his head slowly from side to side with pursed lips. “That I can’t say. But no, I don’t think it’s FBI. I’m not even sure it’s a government contract. Maybe she’s stepped on too many toes, and some ring wants her stopped before they lose any more ground. Maybe look over her caseloads and see whom she might have pissed off. Omega doesn’t care who signs the contract, as long as the contract makes them fat and happy.”
Spencer nodded solemnly.
Frith walked out of the office. As the heavy door closed behind him, Spencer turned and looked directly at the camera as if he were looking directly into my eyes, and mouthed, “Be safe.”
I closed the computer and handed it back to Striker. “Huh.”
“That’s what Spencer thought.”
“This gets curiouser and curiouser,” I tapped my index finger to my lips.
“And that’s what I thought.”
“It felt a whole lot like a fishing expedition.”
“I’m sure that’s why Spencer played it the way he did. It pays to be cautious. How much energy do you have?”
“About a half a pound. Why?”
“I have that surprise for you, remember?” Striker stood and moved his computer to the table by my French doors. He pulled back my covers and scooped me up to a sitting position, then brought me my walker and pushed the call button on my bed. With Andy and Striker’s help, I slid in a snail crawl up the hallway that I had paced earlier today. This time we rounded the corner into the main room.
It was huge — completely breathtaking. A cathedral ceiling soared two and a half stories above my head. The enormous glass panes that looked out over the bay formed the walls that surrounded me on three sides. The fourth side opened to a modern kitchen, separated from the main room by a breakfast bar, with a corridor on either side.
The furniture sat low and white. Though streamlined, it all still managed to look comfortable and inviting. The fabrics were various shades of Caribbean greens, blues, and deep purples. Striker used these same colors when he painted the massive, modern seascapes that hung on the walls in his barracks apartment back in DC.
Andy and Striker shepherded me over to a straight-backed chair. I sat down and took it all in: the bowl of sea glass on the coffee table, the massive round column of the freestanding fireplace made of the same rocks that I had seen from my French doors. Beautiful. A lovely sense of Zen quietude permeated this house. This was a house built for serenity and healing. I completely understand why Striker wanted to bring me here to regain my strength.
“What a wonderful surprise, Striker,” I smiled over to him.
He was watching me closely, gauging my reaction. He nodded with satisfaction. “Glad it’s to your liking, Chica, but this isn’t your surprise.” Striker pushed a button on his cellphone. “She’s ready.”
A door opened at the end of the east wing that branched out in front of me. I heard the clickity-clack of nails on the wooden floor. A joyful cacophony of barks and whimpers went up as Beetle and Bella vaulted, in a riot of shiny black Doberman fur, into the room, dragging Gater behind them with a tight grip on both of their leads.
“Oh my god. My babies!”
Striker laughed and pulled the walker out of the way so my girls could get closer to me. It took all three men to keep Bella from climbing into my lap. I rubbed my hands over their glossy fur. Talk about medicine for the soul. This was it. This was bliss.
Sixteen
“Chica, you’re having a weird dream. You need to wake up.” I felt a hand on my hip.
I blinked at the early morning light coming in through my doors, and turned towards his voice. “What time is it?”
“Zero five thirty. What in the hell were you dreaming about?”
“I dreamed that you were on the other side of a lake of honey. I wanted to get to you, but it was too thick and gooey for me to swim through. The only way I could get to you was to wear Gater like a coat. I put him on, dove in, and I swam as hard as I could. I’ve been wearing Gater and swimming for a long time – I’m glad you woke me up.”
Striker’s mouth was set in a hard line. He didn’t say anything. I thought that image would make him laugh. But his eyes glowed with a weird light. I would have called it jealousy but that was beyond preposterous. Since he didn’t see the humor in my sticky swim, I changed the subject. “You’re in uniform.”
“I have to go in to the office today. You have Deep and Blaze on security, also, Chris, Andy, and Cook are here.”
“When I got here, I was surprised to see Chris and Andy were my medical support. How’d you swing that?” I asked.
“I put in a request that we get the medics who worked with you before. They’re very circumspect. I’ve never heard a word about you, or your odd condition, around Iniquus.”
“Odd condition?” I quirked a brow.
“Odd is a euphemism.” Striker’s hands rested casually on his hips. “When you’ve gone behind the Veil and sustained the injuries of the victim you’re trying to help, and they find you covered with blood and slime, looking like something out of a horror movie, that’s not normal. When the medics walk into a room, and are given zero in the way of explanation, that’s not normal. When you go to sleep for days on end, completely unaware of anything at all, and then you miraculously heal without so much as the tiniest scar, that’s not normal, either. Yup. Odd is about the most benign word I could possibly use. If they wanted a good story to tell, yours would be it. In other words, I completely trust these men not only with your health, but also your safety.”
“Agreed.”
Striker looked at his watch. “Laura will be here in a few hours. The rest of us are heading in. We won’t be back until late – the commute takes a while.”
“If you have anything that needs my attention, you could bring it back with you.” I said.
“Nope. They’ve officially removed you from the payroll. Your only job right now is getting better. I do need to know where you want to go next with the investigation now that Hector got pulled off the stage.”
“I guess I need to follow the chain up.” I stretched and pushed the covers off me.
Striker reached out to run his hand up and down my bare leg. “Where’s this chain lead?”
“To my shackles on one side.” I thought maybe I should have shaved.
Striker put his arm under me and lifted me to my dangling/acclimating position. I waited for my head to stop doing cartwheels.
“Understood. And on the other?” he asked.
“Maria and Julio.” I caught hold of his hand and kept my focus fixed to one spot on the bamboo floor while the room spun around me.
“Axel’s on it. Since we don’t have anyone on Maria or Julio’s prison visitation lists, and there’s no way they’d sign off on one of us, we need to go the official route. Axel tapped a friend with the ATF in Florida who’s willing to help. The agent submitted forms for Maria and Julio’s interrogations. We’re waiting for the official nod to go ahead.”
“That was nice of the agent.
Is the ATF guy the one who will have to interrogate?” I asked as he went to retrieve my walker.
“The Agent’s going to try to slip Axel in with him. If that doesn’t work, then yes, he’ll be the one who does the interview. We’re going to push hard to get Axel in there. If it works out, he’ll wear a wire-cam, but he won’t be able to wear a communicator. You won’t be in on this one. You need to think about how you want this to go and make sure you get a script together. If you’re going to have any ‘T-Bone is dead’ moments, you need to have them now.”
“I wish it worked that way.”
Striker nodded. “Me, too.” He had steadying hands on my hips; I liked his hands there. They felt. . .possessive.
“In the meantime, I’ve uploaded a file named ‘Julio-Nelson’; in it are his records.” Striker pointed to the computer on my breakfast table. “It includes everything the prison has on him — all of his reports, the video of his visits. There’s video of his interrogations, but no audio. The audio is classified.”
“And Maria?”
“We’re still working on that.” Striker checked his watch. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Striker bent and gave me an absent-minded kiss that missed my lips by an inch. I grabbed his hand. “Hey, what was that? Is something wrong?”
Striker canted his head and gave me a half smile. “Nothing’s wrong – I’m distracted, that’s all.” It felt like a lie. I tightened my grip on his hand, and he kissed me again. This time it was a real kiss — the toe-curling kind that made me want to pull him back into my bed with me. When he looked at me again, there was laughter in his eyes. “Better?”
“Unfair! You can’t kiss a girl like that and leave!”
Striker gave a full-throated laugh as he walked out my door.
Chris came in to monitor me in the bathroom, because who needed modesty, right? When I was clean and dressed, Cook brought in my breakfast. I was definitely over these peanut butter smoothies. I woofed everything down so I could get to work at the computer.
The first files I opened were of the interrogations with the federal attorney. With no audio, I scanned through these. In the picture was Julio in a chair as if he were a naughty boy sitting in the principal’s office. He set his feet primly side-by-side. His hands rested on his knees. With eyes focused straight forward, he maintained a blank stare. Once in position, the time lapse indicated he sat there immobile for hours. His butt must have been numb. I have never seen anyone sit that still for that long. Both my Kitchen Grandmother, Biji, and Master Wang taught me to meditate, but I don’t think even they could sit that still that long. Ten. Ten times the federal attorney came in and met with him, laid papers in front of him. Talked at him. Yelled at him. Nada. He was dedicated to his strategy, I’ll give him that.
The next file I opened was a commissary list of Julio’s purchases: shower shoes, socks, Tabasco sauce, Charmin toilet paper. Nothing interesting there.
There was a file that contained his visitor applications and approvals. He was incarcerated in September. Maria was the only one on his list until March. That’s when my team got the ransom note. After that, there was a new name: Brody Covington. I didn’t know that name. It wasn’t part of the Sylanos file. Interesting.
Maria had visited Julio on every Sunday. That’s a hell of a practice, considering that she had to get from DC to Florida once a week from September until February when I was kidnapped. February she moved to Nelson, Florida. She never missed a Sunday. After she demanded Julio’s release as a prisoner exchange for me, and knew that Iniquus would be monitoring the jail, Brody Covington took up the practice. It was every Sunday — never any other day. That was striking.
I didn’t get any further than that. Laura stuck her head in my room. “I’m here!”
Laura walked me down the hall, through the great room, to a door on the first corridor beside the kitchen. Behind the door was a gym. Mirrors lined one wall where there were free-weights. There were machines in the center. On the left, there was a matted area with boxing equipment and a heavy bag. We headed to the back where Striker had an endless pool.
“I thought we’d put you in the water this morning to give you a little resistance.”
“Is that allowed? Chris and Andy won’t let me take a shower. They don’t want my incision wet yet.”
Laura smiled and opened her shoulder bag. She pulled out a roll of Glad Press and Seal Wrap.
“You’re kidding me,” I said.
“Nope, works like a charm. Can you hold your arms out to your sides?”
Laura pulled off a piece of plastic and lifted my shirt. She stopped. She was looking at my side where Wilson’s knife went in under my arm and had slid down to my hip, the second time he attacked me. It took a hundred and fifty-two stitches to sew me back together. The scar had faded to a white line with little dots on either side. When it happened, the Iniquus men called this my “bragging rights”, a source of pride that I had faced the enemy and survived. Pride is not what I saw on Laura’s face; what I saw there was pity. Pity commanded me to cover up and feel weak. I fought against those feelings.
Laura’s gaze moved to my torso where a spider web of white lines crisscrossed my skin from the first attack when Wilson chloroformed me, and followed his serial killer MO by slicing me with a razor, and reviving me from my stupor by pouring vinegar in the open wounds. Cooking my flesh like ceviche. Leaving little for the plastic surgeon to glue back together.
Laura wove her eyebrows together and cocked her head to one side as she tried to figure out how someone could get these kinds of wounds. She looked up with a question mark. I stood there stoically. I had nothing to say on the subject. Laura went back to work covering the stitches under my re-emerging breasts, and getting me into the water. It was a quiet workout; I wasn’t in the mood for light banter. My mind was back on the Julio files.
Finally, five o’clock came and Laura left. I needed to nap before dinner. Laura had squeezed every ounce of energy from every cell in my body. I wasn’t sure I could lift my fork or chew, not that I wanted to. It felt as if someone took a hot knitting needle and stuck it in my right eye. Every noise felt like a physical blow to my head. When I retreated to my bed, Chris shut the screen over my French door, leaving my room blissfully void of light and sound. An IV drip was set up to give me respite from the nausea and the pain of my migraine. I closed my eyes and let the meds pull me under.
At seven, Chris got me up for a plate of roasted vegetables, aromatic rice, and Masala Dal – foods from my Kitchen Grandmother, Biji. Today must be Tuesday. I really needed to get a calendar put up so I could get a better rhythm for passing time. Next to my plate there was the ubiquitous peanut butter smoothie. Sigh.
After dinner, I went back to the Julio-Nelson files. The videos of Julio’s visits with Maria and Brody were bizarre. They were short. No one said anything; mouths never opened. Expressions never changed from blank. Julio sat at a visitor window. Maria sat down in front of him. Julio would place a piece of torn notebook paper in front of him with a number written in pencil. Time passed. She’d get up and leave. Later, Brody took up this same ritual. The only thing that changed was the number on the piece of torn notebook paper.
I went through each of the visits and wrote down the numbers. It was a painstaking process. The camera angle was good, but the faintly penciled numbers were small and difficult to discern. Chris came in and gave me a handful of pills at one point. I was vaguely aware that I swallowed them.
I felt Striker come into my room. He squatted beside me where I had my head pillowed on my arms and reached out to turn off the computer.
“Chica, this is bad for your back. You can’t do this. You need to go to bed.”
“Chris doped me.”
“So he said. You wouldn’t follow his instructions.”
“I have to puzzle the numbers.”
He chuckled softly. “Tomorrow you can puzzle the numbers.”
“Tomorrow. .
.”
Striker gently leaned my head onto his shoulder, scooped me into his arms, and carried me to my bed. Chris was there to pull down the covers and check my vitals. Striker gently smoothed my hair out of my face.
“I’m dreaming about pine cones and pineapples,” I mumbled.
“That’s very weird,” Striker said.
“You have to tell me tomorrow. Very important. Promise.”
“Go to sleep.” He didn’t need to tell me twice.
Seventeen
Wednesday passed much like Tuesday – luckily for me, Wednesday is Laura’s short day. I desperately wanted to work on those numbers. They must mean something. Right now, they meant nothing.
I ate dinner — meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green peas, and apple pie (with a peanut butter smoothie) – in the great room with the team. They were excited about a bust they made in the wee hours of the morning. Gater was jealous that he wasn’t in on the gunfight. He had pulled the short straw to babysit me and hold down the fort. I have to admit I was a little jealous too. Not of the gunfight. I didn’t do daring deeds of do or die, not when I could help it at any rate. I did miss the tension and release of a good case. I missed my office. I missed the challenges. I missed driving home. I missed home. I missed my neighbors. . .
“Hey, Lynx, why the long face?” Striker asked, reaching out to rub my wrist, concern darkening his eyes.
“I was having a pity party about the things I’m missing from my old life.”
“I bet I have something that will help. I’ll show you after dinner.”
I gave Striker a weak smile and sipped my smoothie.
As soon as I could, I slipped back to my room. The guys were in such a great mood, and I was in such a not-great mood; I didn’t want to deflate their balloon.
