Father Figure

by Laura Peyton Roberts

  At least it's a big tree. Plus, so far as she could tell, no one was watching her. She took a baby step to the left, timing her move by the sound of Wilson's approaching footsteps.

  She still couldn't see him. She prayed that meant he couldn't see her.

  Another baby step. Another.

  He was almost to the tree. Another step.

  Sydney held her breath. . . .

  She could hear his footfalls on the sidewalk directly across the trunk from her, maybe six feet away. Then he was past.

  Another step, moving more quickly now. She caught a split-second glimpse of his back as she slid around the tree.

  She was safe.

  That was too close! she thought, slumping against the trunk. I never want to do that again.

  But a moment later she was back on the hunt, tracking Wilson down the sidewalk.

  My car's in this direction anyway, she rationalized.

  She followed at a distance, letting Wilson get a good lead before dashing to the next bit of cover. At the corner, he turned right.

  That's a gift. Take it, said a little voice in her head. All she had to do was let him get out of sight, then run left to her car and disappear. Instead, she followed him to the right, ignoring the alarms going off in her brain.

  Within a couple of curvy blocks, the houses on the other side of the road gave way to a long, brushy hill. Sydney imagined the horse trail she'd noticed before winding along the hill's low crest, but eucalyptus trees and thick vegetation made it impossible to see if that was the case. She considered dashing to that side of the road, where the natural landscape offered more cover, but before she could make up her mind, Wilson beat her to it. Sydney stepped into hiding behind a manicured yellow hibiscus, waiting to see where he'd go.

  About a hundred yards ahead, the brushy hill dipped down to a saddle containing a crossroad. Wilson turned left at the corner, skirting the end of the hill. Sydney let him get out of sight, then ran across the street, pushing forcefully through the dense vegetation on her way straight up the hill.

  The ground wasn't steep, but progress was more difficult than she'd expected. Low-lying shoots and tendrils caught her feet. A thorny bou-gainvillea gouged scratches in her bare legs. Her shorts snagged on a tree branch, which ripped a hole in their fabric, while dust and dirt darkened the sap on her shirt and arms.

  It's got to be right up here, she thought, fighting her way between two stubborn bushes near the crest. If I'm right about that trail, it ought to be . . .

  Bingo.

  Directly ahead of her, the vegetation ended abruptly, pounded into a wide dirt path by generations of hooves and sneakers. The trail was deserted, and Sydney charged onto it eagerly, sprinting in the direction Wilson had headed.

  Her plan was to stay above him, tracking him on the street from her shelter in the trees. But she hadn't gone very far when the trail took an abrupt left turn, and Sydney didn't have the heart to battle forward through more bushes.

  I'll just stay with this and see where I come out.

  In such a suburban area, there was no chance of ending up lost in the woods. The path was sure to come out near a street, hopefully the same one Wilson had taken. She kept to the trail and a minute later saw a break in the trees up ahead. A few steps farther along, grass appeared through the opening. The trail was about to end in a park.

  Stepping quickly off the path, Sydney crept forward through cover of trees and bushes to a hidden viewing place near the edge of the grass. She could see Wilson's road in the distance, bordering the park's far edge, but he wasn't there. Perhaps she had gotten ahead of him with her shortcut. If she waited where she was, she might still see him walk past. Or perhaps . . .

  Perhaps Wilson was sitting on a bench in the center of the park, calmly reading his newspaper.

  Too weird! she thought, backing deeper into the bushes. What is he doing?

  The idea of her energetic and impatient handler killing time on a park bench was too surreal to accept. But there he was, surrounded by joggers, Frisbee players, and mothers with tots, his bright blue running suit unmistakable.

  He can't be meeting a contact in the park, she thought disbelievingly. That's like a spy cliché!

  Not only that, but she'd been certain the newspaper he carried concealed some sort of intel. The possibility that he might actually read it had never occurred to her.

  He looks like he's reading it, she thought, still suspicious. Maybe he's just turning pages.

  One of the joggers who had been warming up nearby dropped to the grass in front of Wilson's bench and began stretching his hamstrings.

  If he's here to meet someone, that ought to shake him up, Sydney thought, trying to gauge Wilson's reaction. Her handler remained absorbed in his paper, holding it close to his face for better reading. She could just see his eyes over the top of the page, and they weren't showing the least sign of panic.

  The runner stretched over one long leg, grabbing his foot and pulling his face down to his knee. As he did, Sydney thought she saw his lips move.

  Unless he's here to meet that runner!

  Was it possible? She couldn't see Wilson's mouth to tell if he was speaking.

  Besides, even if that jogger said something, it doesn't mean he's a contact.

  But everything seemed wrong to her now. All of her senses were on full alert. She edged a little closer, creeping cautiously through the bushes. If she got a better angle, maybe she could read the jogger's lips. . . .

  And that was when Sydney noticed the third suspicious person in the park. Fifty feet behind Wilson, a homeless man dressed in filthy fatigues lurked at the edge of a small bathroom building. He was wearing dark glasses in the space between his stocking cap and unkempt beard, but Sydney could have sworn he was staring right at her. A thrill of fear shot down her spine. His gaze was so direct, so intense. . . . Could he see her?

  Instinctively, she ducked.

  When she peeked up again, the man had gone. Disappeared.

  He's only stepped behind the building, she reassured herself. He couldn't possibly have seen me.

  Nothing else had changed. Wilson was still reading, the jogger was still stretching. . . .

  But Sydney's confidence was shot.

  Had that shabby man been spying on her? Did he suspect who she was, or what she was doing? Because if he planned to discuss it with Wilson, she was going to be in some serious trouble.

  Pushing frantically back through the brush to the trail, Sydney sprinted toward where she'd parked her car, running for all she was worth. She wasn't disguised. She wasn't armed. She wasn't even sure she was sane.

  All I know is this is over. I've had enough freelancing!

  To: k.estrada@creditdauphine.com

  From: jack.bristow@creditdauphine.com

  Subject: Delayed

  Situation worse than anticipated. Will be out a few more days.

  10

  “WILL YOU LOOK AT that weather?” Francie said happily, pouring syrup over her pancakes until it made amber pools on her plate. “Here comes summer!”

  Light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the commons that Sunday morning, illuminating the tables and infusing the crowded dining room with an unusually laid-back atmosphere.

  “Two more weeks,” Sydney said, trying not to stress about everything she still had to do during that time. “Are you going to save some of that syrup for me?”

  “Maybe.” Francie held the little glass pitcher aloft. “Do you think you deserve it?”

  “I'm doing this for your own good,” Sydney said, making a grab. Her hand closed around the silver handle. “Aha!” she cried triumphantly, waving the pitcher over her head. Then, noticing the attention she was attracting from nearby tables, she quickly lowered it and started pouring.

  “You're cracking up, Syd,” Francie told her, smiling.

  Sydney smiled back. “You mean I'm a crack-up.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  “Come on, you kno
w you love me.”

  At least it was starting to seem that way again. Francie had been home when Sydney got back from the park the day before, full of sympathy upon hearing Sydney's impromptu tale of running out of gas and cutting through some unexpectedly deadly bushes on her walk to the nearest station. They had studied together for hours, capping off the evening with a well-deserved pizza and video. But the best part of all had been waking up in the morning and finding Francie waiting to go to breakfast with her, just like old times. Sydney didn't know where Shauna and Carly were, and she didn't care. She just hoped they stayed away.

  “After this, maybe we can go to the library for a couple of hours, then hit the beach,” Francie said. “A person can't study all day.”

  “I can, and I'm going to.”

  Francie pulled a face, making Sydney reconsider. This was the first real attention her friend had paid her all week; she didn't want to blow it.

  “But there's no good reason I can't study at the beach,” she added.

  Francie smiled broadly. “I'll bet the water's warm.”

  “And the sand is probably hot, so don't forget your flip-flops.”

  “One time!” Francie protested. “One time and you never let a girl—”

  Sydney's pager went off, interrupting them with a series of beeps.

  “Uh-oh,” Francie said sarcastically. “The bank found out you were trying to get a life.”

  “They're psychic that way,” Sydney said, trying not to assume the worst. Wilson might give her the day off, or at least let her come in later. . . .

  But to her surprise, her pager read HICKS followed by three Xs—Noah's code for urgent business.

  “I have to go,” she blurted out.

  “I'm so shocked.”

  “I'm sorry, Francie, but this is important.”

  “Don't worry about it,” Francie said coldly. “I'm pretty clear on what's important to you.”

  Sydney winced as the barb sank in. “I didn't mean you aren't important. It's just—”

  “I don't want to hear it,” Francie said, cutting her off. She stood and picked up her tray, looking for someplace new to sit.

  “Maybe I can still get back in time to—”

  “Don't bother,” said Francie, walking away. She headed toward a packed table and wasn't halfway there before its occupants started calling her name and waving her over. Sydney scanned their faces, trying to recognize someone.

  It didn't help her mood to realize she didn't know a single person there.

  “Finally!” Noah exclaimed, motioning Sydney into the back of a janitor's van and closing the double doors behind her. “What took you so long?”

  “Hello to you too,” she said irritably. “This had better be important.”

  Following his telephone instructions, she had driven her rental car to meet him in a carpool lot a couple of miles from the SST building, but he hadn't said anything about holding a conference in the windowless back of a van. The vehicle was stuffy, cramped, and full of smells she didn't want to analyze too closely. Noah seemed oblivious to it all.

  “It's done!” he told her, his brown eyes glittering with excitement. “Vincent just finished it.”

  “The missile program?” she asked, forgetting everything else. “How do you know?”

  “I've been up with the guy for two nights, watching him through my feed in the janitor's closet. That little run-in with Armstrong must have been mighty motivational, because he hasn't slept since Friday.” Noah pointed to a thermos lying on the floorboards. “Three cheers for coffee.”

  “But how do you know it's finished?” she persisted. “Maybe he just had to go to bed.”

  “I don't think so.” Noah took her wrists, squeezing too hard. “He's been working alone in a classified computer lab, and about an hour ago he got up and started jumping around, dancing, acting like a complete moron. Before he left he locked a portable hard drive in the safe. That's it, Sydney. I'm telling you.”

  He peered deeply into her eyes, making her wonder if the glint in his was only excitement. Their glassiness suggested that more than caffeine might be keeping him awake.

  “So . . . good,” she said at last. “But I'm still not sure why I'm here.”

  “Because I'm going to steal it,” he said. “And the way that lab's set up, I need a lookout.”

  Sydney shook his hands off her wrists. “Are you crazy? What about Barret and Westin, and setting up a buy?”

  “Listen to me, Syd. That program is done, and for all we know it could be gone in another hour. We need to take it right now.”

  “We can't make that call on our own.” That he would even suggest such a thing made her more concerned than ever that his judgment was impaired. “What would Wilson say?”

  “He'll say ‘Congratulations' and ‘Thank you very much,'” Noah replied, reaching behind him. His hand came back with a pair of wadded blue coveralls, which he thrust at Sydney's midsection. “Here, put these on.”

  “I'm not doing this,” she said, crossing her arms stubbornly.

  Noah looked stunned for a moment. Then his eyes went narrow. “Oh, you're doing it. And you know why? Because I outrank you, that's why. Now put on that suit and hurry up.”

  Sydney faced him down. She'd seen his Jekyll-and-Hyde act before, and this time she wouldn't be intimidated. If she wanted to check with Wilson first, that was exactly what she'd do.

  The problem was, she wasn't sure she wanted to. What if he knew about her spying on him the day before? Maybe he was just waiting for a chance to let her have it.

  No, he'd have called me in by now, she reasoned, swaying slightly under Noah's insistent gaze. Wilson doesn't know a thing, and that weird guy was just homeless. I'm totally in the clear.

  Probably.

  She had to admit she wasn't anxious to test that theory.

  On the other hand, Noah did outrank her. If she followed his orders and they got in trouble, he'd be the one to take the heat.

  Probably.

  “All right. Fine!” she said, giving in. “You want to go? We'll go.”

  “That's my girl,” Noah told her with a conspiratorial grin. “Get ready to rock Owen Vincent's world.”

  If someone looks out a window and sees us, they'll call the cops for sure, Sydney worried as she and Noah jogged the two long, hot blocks to SST. He had moved the van closer, but parking on SpaceSoft property was out of the question—there was always the chance they would need to get away quickly. Coveralls, leather gloves . . . yeah, we look normal. Wait until they see the ski masks.

  She felt the lump in her front pocket, making sure the mask Noah had given her hadn't fallen out. She would have preferred to walk in wearing normal clothes and trying to act natural, but they couldn't risk having their faces show up on security tapes, which was why they were headed for a side door that didn't have an outside camera. The only saving grace was that the surrounding streets and parking lots were deserted that Sunday morning, a modern-day ghost town of glass and concrete.

  The side of the SST tower was only feet away when Noah took his ski mask from his pocket and pulled it on still running, motioning for her to do the same. Then he took out a ring of keys and fit one into a metal door used by maintenance workers. The door swung open. They were in.

  “The lab's on fifteen,” Noah whispered, leading the way down a dingy hall. “We'll take the freight elevator.”

  Sydney stuck close behind him, looking nervously about, but there was no sign of a security guard or anyone else in the building. They made it into the big steel-walled elevator unobserved.

  “We'll do this the way we discussed in the van,” Noah whispered on the way up. “And the less talking, the better. Just in case.”

  Sydney nodded, her adrenaline starting to kick in. The only bugs they had found around SST so far were their own, but there was no point in taking chances.

  The freight elevator stopped. Noah grinned through the little hole in his mask. “Let's do this thing,” he said. />
  They stepped out on the fifteenth floor, and Sydney immediately realized that this part of the building was different. The small lobby in front of the elevator was walled entirely in steel and bounded on both sides by solid metal doors blocking off the hallways.

  “This can't be good,” she said apprehensively.

  But Noah headed straight for the door on their left. “I told you these labs were a little tougher,” he reminded her in a whisper.

  The entry system on the security door was a standard keypad device with a card slot. An authorized person inserted a magnetized card and keyed in the appropriate code, causing the door to slide open automatically. Noah wasn't an authorized person. He took a rubber-handled screwdriver from his pocket and rammed its metal end into the slot, shorting out the wiring. Smoke filtered up through the keypad; the lights on the unit went dead.

  “Come on!” he whispered, motioning for Sydney to help him with the heavy door.

  At first the slick surface gave them no purchase; no matter how they pushed, the door remained motionless. At last they got it rolling, though, and once a crack was opened they were able to grab the door's edge and pull it back the rest of the way. Noah wedged his screwdriver under the bottom to keep it from rolling shut.

  “What if we need that again?” Sydney whispered, pointing to the tool.

  “What if we need to get out?”

  Leaving the screwdriver behind, they started down a windowless hallway, Sydney's pulse racing faster with every step. Turning on SST, betraying people she knew and had worked with, was far more nerve-racking than hitting a neutral place.

  A hundred feet down the hall, Noah stopped in front of a recessed doorway. The metal door barring this entrance also had a security pad, but instead of a keyed code and card, this one required a palm scan.

  “Crap,” Noah said under his breath. “This has got to be the only one of these in the building.”

  Sydney's misgivings rushed back as she realized Noah hadn't fully anticipated the lab's security measures. “Can you fake it somehow?” she whispered.