Conspiracy of Angels

by Laurence MacNaughton

  She got down on the dusty concrete floor and crawled beneath the van.

  *

  The Toyota came back the next morning, just as Mitch finished cleaning up the pieces of the broken TV set. It had taken an hour to find the damn vacuum cleaner. It was a small red one, and he didn’t remember ever seeing it before. The old one must have died, and Bryce must have bought a new one.

  It had been like that ever since he got out. This was his house, all right, but all the little details had changed. Like the vacuum cleaner. Mitch felt like he was a ghost come back from the dead, and the world had moved on without him.

  He came outside to look at the Toyota. It was rain-spotted all over, except for the windshield and the back window. They were brand new, showroom clean, so clear they didn’t even look solid. It took him a moment to realize the back bumper had been replaced, too.

  A kid got out of the driver’s seat, a young guy with his hair all slicked back, wearing squarish black-framed glasses. He hiked up his mechanic pants and held out a clipboard full of forms. “Hey, what’s up. You Mitchell Turner?”

  Mitch looked the kid over. The name on his shirt said Ruben.

  Mitch nodded his chin at the clipboard. “What’s all this?”

  “Insurance claim. It states your car was appraised.” Ruben looked at the top form. “For damage sustained from an incident involving construction equipment.”

  After a second, Mitch took the clipboard. “Construction equipment.”

  The kid grinned. “Yeah. Kind of a little heartfelt screw-you to the insurance cartel. Know what I mean?”

  “That would be fraud.”

  “Hey, man. I’m just doing what Lanny told me.”

  “It’s all right, kid. Relax.” Mitch put on his reading glasses and looked over the forms, started initialing where he needed to, signing at the bottom of each one. “Hmm. What do you know. Construction equipment. I should have thought that one up a long time ago.”

  That reminded Mitch of something. He looked at the kid, standing there surveying the neighborhood. “Got the keys?”

  “Huh? Yeah.” He got them out of his pocket, handed them to Mitch. His hands were dirty.

  Mitch opened the trunk, pulled old newspapers and umbrellas and junk out of the way until he got to the spare tire. He pulled it out a little, so he could get a good look at the clear tape he’d put over the edge of the tire where it met the rim.

  It hadn’t been broken. That meant what he’d hidden inside was still safe. Satisfied, he pushed the tire back into the trunk and buried it.

  “Full-size spare, huh?” the kid said over his shoulder. “That’s a good idea. Looks a little flat, though. Want me to air it up for you?”

  Mitch shook his head.

  “I mean, you don’t want to ride on that.”

  “You might be surprised.” Mitch slammed the trunk. He put his foot up on the new bumper and went back to the forms.

  Name, address, Social Security number. God, he should be doing this under an alias. Too late for that.

  “Careful of the bumper, man,” Ruben said. “The fascia’s plastic.”

  “The what?” Mitch took his foot off of it. “One of these days, I gotta get a real car.”

  “Hey, Toyota Camry. You know, this is one of the top ten most frequently stolen cars in America?”

  “Now, there’s an idea. Maybe I should start leaving the keys in it.”

  “Don’t like it much, huh?”

  Mitch shrugged. “Bought it for my daughter. I read in a magazine, they said it was a safe car. And besides, I had, you know, a friend who owed me this favor. He got me a good deal.”

  “She like it? Your daughter?”

  “She did. She’s dead now.”

  “Oh. Oh man, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. I was in prison at the time. Couldn’t even go to the funeral.” He signed his name, and the pen ripped through the paper. “Life’s a bitch sometimes.” And suddenly he was blinking away tears.

  He stared at the page, all the little fine print, none of it making any sense. He focused on it, read it, told himself to keep it together.

  He breathed. In, out. The tears went away.

  The kid, oblivious, said, “Yeah, I hear you, man. You’ve got to get yourself an American car. A real American car.”

  “Yeah. I should do that.”

  “Hey, I know where you could get a real sweet deal on an old Studebaker.”

  Mitch looked over his reading glasses at him. “No.”

  “What? Why not?”

  Mitch cleared his throat and flipped the last form over. “I need something fast.”

  “Yeah, fast, like an old Firebird. Camaro. Something like that?”

  Mitch thought about the black car streaking away through the rain, sheets of water flying up on both sides. “I’m looking for a Cougar, as a matter of fact. Or maybe a Shelby Mustang.”

  “Really? No kidding. Man, this sixty-eight Cougar stopped by my shop yesterday. Black. It was bad, and I mean bad, man. And this girl who was driving it …” The kid made a face like he’d just bit into a lemon. He gave Mitch the OK sign.

  Mitch held out the clipboard, but didn’t let go when the kid tried to take it. “Cute girl, huh? Long black hair? With the, uh, the face paint?”

  “Yeah. All goth. You know her?”

  “She was a friend of my daughter’s. Or so I hear.” Mitch looked real hard at the kid until he knew he had his complete attention, then let go of the clipboard. “So tell me. Where exactly is your shop, Ruben?”

  EIGHT

  Geneva slipped into the room and closed the door as quietly as she could. The cold little bottles of juice raised goose bumps on her arm. The mug of instant oatmeal steamed in her other hand.

  The guy slept in the corner with his back to her, still wearing his wrinkled white shirt and gray suit pants. He’d folded up his suit jacket for a pillow. Good for him. He’d probably gotten a better night’s sleep than she had.

  She set down the oatmeal and juice on the chair, the only thing in the room.

  “So what’s your name, little lady?” he said. His voice startled her.

  She straightened up. “I …” He hadn’t moved. “I don’t think you really want to know,” she said.

  “Why? Might get me into trouble?” He rolled over so that he was facing her, and adjusted the jacket under his cheek.

  The guy looked terrible. He was a little doughy to begin with, but with stubble and dark smudges under his eyes, and the scar though his eyebrow, he looked like an extra from a zombie movie.

  “The name’s Arthur. Arthur Givens, with an ‘s’.” He took off his glasses and squinted at them. “So I did what you said. Told your friends the Archangel is gone. Dropped out of sight.”

  Geneva folded her arms across her chest. “Good. Now, tell me. Is it true?”

  He sat up, grunting. “Is what true, honey?”

  “Look, I don’t have time to screw around. My friends are serious. I mean, you look up ‘serious’ in the dictionary, there’s a picture of Michael.”

  “That a fact?”

  Geneva decided to try a different approach. She brought the oatmeal and juice over and sat down cross-legged in front of him. “You know, before I was born, my parents moved to this cabin way up in the mountains. It was like fifteen miles from the nearest town. There was no electricity or running water or anything. You know? They wanted to get off the grid. Live away from everything that they said was wrong with the world. It was real peaceful.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It was. But they’re dead now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Your Archangel killed them.” She peeled the little orange tab off of a bottle of juice. The unzipping sound was loud between them.

  “All right. So who’s this Archangel? Some kind of serial killer?”

  She was up on one knee before she knew it, with Arthur’s collar bunched up in her fist. She shoved him back against the wall. “Do
n’t play dumb with me, Arthur. You know where to find the Archangel. You know how to kill it.” She leaned in close, past his wide eyes, and spoke into his ear. “And you’re going to tell me, okay? Because after you do, I’ll help you get out of here. In one piece.”

  She held on until he nodded. Then she let him go. She sat back down again and sipped her orange juice. It was sour.

  He straightened his collar and put his hands in his lap. They shook a little.

  “What, don’t you want some oatmeal?” She pushed the mug toward him. “It’s cinnamon apple. Good stuff.”

  “Thanks. Not much of a breakfast person, myself.”

  “Don’t accept favors from your captors. That’s good. That the first thing they teach you at the CIA?”

  “Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” He smiled thinly. “That’s one of our little CIA jokes.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  He cleared his throat.

  Geneva shook her head. She wasn’t getting anywhere. “Look, let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t capture you. Okay? I’m not the bad person here. I don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, as a matter of fact. The reason you’re here is because you’re a CIA agent and you know something.”

  “I’m … well, I’m not an agent. Not exactly.”

  “What are you, then? Exactly?”

  He let out a little sigh. “I’m a document reproduction and control specialist.”

  She nodded. “And that’s what, in English?”

  “I make copies.” He held up his hands. “I fix the copy machines. I make sure we have enough paper, enough toner. Clear out the stapler when it jams.” He shook his head. “You people think I know about some whacked-out top-secret hoodoo nonsense. Truth is, I’m the office copy boy. Isn’t that something?”

  Now it was her turn to stare. “Okay, maybe you missed the part where I said I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

  He let out an uneasy laugh. “Do I look like a secret agent to you? Hmm? One minute I’m working overtime to get the fiscal quarter reports collated and boxed up on time, I run out the back door to get some fuser oil for one of the Canon duplicators. And I stop and get some bagels. Next thing I know, your friend Paul Bunyan out there is sticking an Uzi in my face, telling me to shut up and get in the van.”

  It started to hit Geneva then. She put her face in her hands. “Oh, God.”

  It all came crashing down around her. This was the wrong guy. They thought they’d nabbed some kind of major agent of the Conspiracy, and instead they’d grabbed the office dweeb.

  And that’s when she realized that this guy had seen all of their faces, heard all of their voices. Once Michael was done with Arthur Givens, he might make him disappear.

  This fact apparently hadn’t hit Arthur yet. He was lost in his own little world.

  “You know, I’m up for a raise? I was due for my review two weeks ago. I might’ve made shift supervisor, and then I could’ve sent someone else for the fuser oil. Like Ted. I could’ve sent Ted for fuser oil and bagels, and he’d be the one getting abducted and held for ransom. Instead of me.”

  Geneva stood up and paced the room, thinking fast. “Listen to me, Arthur. You can’t let them know who you really are.”

  He slurped his orange juice and wiped his mouth on his wrist. “No kidding. You don’t think I should say, ‘Sorry, I’m not a secret agent after all, please shoot me now’?”

  “Basically.”

  The door swung open. Geneva looked up into Michael’s eyes as he walked in. Raph and Gabe followed him, carrying their black MP-5 submachine guns with the fat silencers screwed onto the barrels. Michael carried an aluminum briefcase, a streamlined one with a black rectangle of glass above the handle, where a lock would’ve been.

  Geneva held out her empty hands. “Michael, wait.”

  “Don’t, Genie. Don’t make this any worse.” He came over to the middle of the room and kicked the chair out of the way. She could see the hurt in his face, the look of betrayal. “Well. Aren’t we all a bit chummy this morning?”

  Raph pointed his gun at Geneva. Her blood ran cold. She couldn’t move.

  So this is how it all ends, she thought.

  Michael gave Raph a sidelong glance. “Lower your weapon.”

  “She betrayed us,” Raph ground out through his teeth. “You can’t cover up for her this time.”

  “Lower it!”

  A muscle in Raph’s face twitched. Slowly, he lowered the barrel of his gun until it was pointed at the floor. He gave Geneva a murderous look.

  Geneva’s throat went dry. She swallowed the scared feeling that rose up in her throat. “I was just bringing him some breakfast.”

  Michael nodded. “Yeah, I can see. Delicious and low fat, no doubt. Did he tell you anything useful?”

  She shook her head. “No. Just … just let him go. Please.”

  Michael’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Damn it, Genie. Why are you doing this to me? Why won’t you just trust me, for once?”

  “Why should I?” Her voice took on a hard edge. “Everything you’re telling me, you’re either lying to me, or else you’re trying to distract me. Half of these so-called ‘missions’ you send me on are just busywork. You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know you’re just keeping me out of the way? You follow my every move, and meanwhile you’re going behind my back. You’re scouting out locations, abducting people. What else are you doing? What are you afraid to even tell me?”

  “I’m trying to protect you.”

  “You’re using me!”

  Michael turned and paced the room, still carrying the aluminum case, his free hand balled into a fist. The sudden silence thickened between them.

  Geneva willed her knees not to shake. She held onto her anger, kept it burning bright inside her. Because if she let the fear overcome her, she’d lose all control. She watched Michael pace, willing him to say something, anything, to break the silence.

  Arthur struggled to his feet. “What do you people want?”

  Michael turned and pointed at him. “Sit down. Shut up.”

  Arthur did.

  Michael paced once more and stopped, scowling at Arthur, who stared back mildly. Something unspoken passed between them, something Geneva couldn’t catch.

  Michael crossed the room and laid the briefcase down on the floor in front of Arthur. “Open it.”

  Arthur looked confused. He glanced at Raph and Gabe, who gave no sign they knew what was going on either. Arthur awkwardly put his hands on either side of the case, then tried to pry it open with his fingernails. “Huh. Doesn’t have any latches. You’re going to have to pry it or something.”

  Michael drew his pistol and put it against Arthur’s head. “Look harder.”

  All the color drained from Arthur’s face.

  Geneva stepped toward them. “Michael, this isn’t—”

  Raph and Gabe both pointed their guns at her. This time, Michael didn’t move to stop them.

  Slowly, Geneva raised her hands. “Michael?”

  “You really think everything I’ve had you do was for nothing?” He watched Arthur, but he was talking to her. “You think I’m afraid to let you know what’s really going on? Well, here’s your golden opportunity to witness it firsthand.”

  “Michael. Don’t do this. You have the wrong guy.”

  “Now, Arthur, I’m going to count to three.” Michael tilted his head. “One.”

  “Wait. Listen. He’s not the right guy.” Geneva turned to Gabe. “Stop him!”

  Gabe didn’t flinch. He kept his gun trained on Geneva.

  “Two,” Michael said.

  Arthur’s hands scrabbled across the suitcase. “I don’t know how you open this thing!”

  Geneva said, “Listen to him! He doesn’t know!”

  Michael’s expression hardened. “He’s just toying with us, Genie. He’s manipulating you, and you’re letting him do it.” He cocked the pistol with his thumb. �
�Three.”

  Geneva felt time freeze around her, like the air was suddenly crystal clear, and nothing in the world existed outside this room.

  She could knock the pistol aside, maybe get it out of Michael’s hand. But there was no way she could get past Gabe and Raph with their automatic weapons.

  It was the only chance Arthur had. She had to take it. But she couldn’t. She also couldn’t stand there and watch Arthur get executed. She was torn.

  Then Arthur pressed his thumb against the black rectangle of glass, and a pale green bar of light swept across his thumb and back. The suitcase beeped twice and hissed open.

  Michael uncocked his pistol and holstered it behind his back. “There. Don’t you see?”

  Arthur swallowed hard. His eyes squeezed shut, as if in prayer.

  Geneva felt like she was going to throw up.

  Inside the case, nestled in gray egg crate foam rubber, was a black cube six inches across.

  Michael carefully picked it up and studied it. He turned it around in his hands, studying the featureless sides, and a bittersweet smile spread over his face.

  “What is that?” Geneva whispered.

  The smile faded, leaving Michael looking desolate and cold. He opened his mouth to answer, but changed his mind and headed for the door instead.

  Raph caught Michael’s arm. “What about her?” He gestured with his gun.

  Michael wouldn’t look at her. “Make sure she stays put. We have work to do.”

  “You’re going to just leave her in here?” Raph didn’t sound convinced. “With him?”

  Michael finally turned his gaze back on Geneva, and she knew she’d never forget the way he looked at her.

  “We can’t trust her anymore,” he said.

  NINE

  It took Mitch three frying pans to make breakfast. Hash browns and sausage in one. Eggs in another, because he knew Bryce hated to have his eggs taste like sausage grease. Which never made a lot of sense to Mitch, since you ate them together, but hey, that was Bryce. And then in the last frying pan, the square one, he made a four small pancakes with that lousy wheat stuff with the junk in it. Flax seed. Who thought up this stuff?