by Fiona Quinn
“You recognize this dress from a Nancy Drew novel. And you even remember the title?”
Striker sent me a grin. “Yeah, well. I had this babysitter.”
I chuckled at the thought of Striker being so young that he needed someone to watch him.
“She was reading that book when I met her. It was the first time in my life when I had a sexual impulse.”
“Toward Nancy or the babysitter?”
He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure that I can tell you. But what I did was hide the book and a flashlight under my pillow when I went to bed that night.”
“To read?”
“To look at Nancy’s boobies on the cover and to want a Nancy all my own.”
“Ha.”
“And so my babysitter would need to come back and get her book. It was a win-win in my six-year-old world.” He cuddled me into his arms. “See? I got my wish.”
“Well, Nancy Drew or not. We have a meeting with a crime to solve.” I sent him a wink. “I just need to put my magnifying glass in my purse. It’s the role I plan on playing. Speaking of roles, you ready to roll on out of here and go to the CIA?”
“Yeah, I’m just going to use the head, then we’ll head on.”
I smiled at the play on words because he wanted me to.
Striker turned toward my guest bathroom. “Are you ready?”
No, actually, I wasn’t.
No part of me wanted to be helpful to the CIA when they were failing to live up to their promises to me.
Now, I needed to see if there was anything about this meeting that might give me leverage. I needed the CIA color code group to follow through with their promise and help me get a divorce from Angel.
How could I get their attention?
Chapter Eleven
Sitting next to Striker, I adjusted his passenger seat back a bit, leaning my head on the rest.
“I don’t like the idea of you driving until Dr. Carlon checks your head,” Striker said. “It would be terrible if you passed out and hurt not only you but innocent people who are driving with you.”
Wow! When he said that, it was like a bolt of lightning between my eyes.
There was a long-ago memory that was clawing its way up my nervous system, trying to find the light of day.
“What was that look about?” Striker pulled his safety belt in place.
I waggled my hand over my shoulder. I was indicating that the “essence of parents” I felt hovering over there had spiked.
Yes! Yes! Pay attention was the impression I was picking up.
I wished I had the right vocabulary for this sensation, experience…
Pay attention to what?
I didn’t offer Striker anything else by way of explanation. “It’s fine. I agree. No driving until my head is deemed safe.”
He nodded. “Once we’re done at the CIA, we can grab something quick to eat at a drive-through, a late lunch. Then I’ll drop you at FBI headquarters. From there I’d like you to take a car service to Dr. Carlon’s office. I’ll meet you there at four-thirty.
I pressed my lips together.
“Is that sour look for me?” he asked.
“No, I’m mad as hell at the CIA for not facilitating my divorce from Angel. I’ve been seething about it all day. You’d think that they’d do this for the child of a former CIA officer if not for the justice and correctness of it. Maybe some atonement of the pain they inflicted on me and Angel’s family.”
“They’re stopping you from moving forward with your life.” He glanced back to make sure the street was clear, then pulled out and started us down the road.
“Yep. And you, too.”
“I don’t care about a wedding, to be honest, Chica. Those vows are in my heart. Heck, I’ll tattoo them across my chest if you’d like.”
“Seems extreme.” I brushed at my skirts.
“I imagine that seeing our friends marrying this year—Deep and Grace, Gage and Zoe’s wedding in June—and now standing up with Christen and Gator makes this more upsetting. As for me, I don’t need to make my vows in front of anyone but you. They’re already my bond. And I don’t need a piece of paper saying we belong to each other. We belong. If you wanted, we could just create a contract and sign it. We could even go through the mechanics of the wedding if our friends and family want that. It could just be a ceremony without the legal ramifications of you being married to two husbands.”
“I don’t lie. That would be a whopper if everyone thought we were legally married, and we weren’t.”
He turned the car right and let his eye graze over my face before focusing out the front window again. “The only place that it might make the slightest of differences is when we have kids. And we decided to wait five years and then see if it’s good timing for us. Most importantly, of course, is your mental wellbeing. I’m worried that these circumstances make you feel caged in.”
“Exactly. A prisoner of circumstances.”
“Understood. And I agree. It’s not fair that the CIA hasn’t followed through. The problem is, even with all of our contacts and Iniquus’s network, we can’t leverage those connections because we can’t tell anyone this is happening.”
I adjusted the seatbelt strap over my chest. “Do you think it has anything to do with retribution?”
“How do you mean?”
“Spyder and I were working to take down the Hydra. Lots of Assemblymen wound up in prison. High-level Assemblymen who might still wield power from behind bars. Or have friends who want to pile on because they’re mad.”
“They shouldn’t be able to connect your name or even Iniquus to that data dump to the press that started the ball rolling. If retribution were at play, I’m not sure how we’d be able to tell or what we could do about it.” He reached over and took my hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed my swollen knuckles.
“The biggest problem today is this chip I’ve got on my shoulder. I need to leave it behind when we walk into Langley. I’m not going in as Mrs. Sobado, the wife of a black ops officer. I’m going in as a representative of Iniquus. I need to keep those roles clear.”
“You’re going to do fine. Hey, after we leave Dr. Carlon’s, why don’t we get a bouquet and go visit your mom. Sunflowers were her favorite, right?”
“Yeah.” My face crumpled.
He remembered my mom’s favorite flowers. Striker was an amazing guy. My guy. My heart and soul. Not being married to him felt like things were just dangling, unfinished. The constraints made by the CIA’s inaction were like a paper-thin popcorn hull that wedged into my gum line, and I couldn’t pry it out. So there it was, rubbing and irritating me. Constantly.
Striker drove quietly while the emotions flooded through my body then receded. “I’d like that. Thank you for remembering.” I finally managed, referring to his suggestion about taking flowers out to the cemetery.
“Of course.”
I rubbed my eye. “I still don’t know why you can’t go to the CIA on your own.”
“Like I was telling you this morning before your coffee kicked in, my take is that your reputation proceeds you. I’m guessing here, but I’d bet that the CIA officers’ expectation is that when you come in and look over their materials, you’ll pronounce some grossly obvious answer. I’m sure they’d rather that beat down be confined to their top three officers.”
“Let’s say that’s exactly how things go. How would your being there help them?”
“I’ll probably be just as stunned by what you come up with as they are, so I’ll be sitting there with my mouth hanging open in awe along with them. And since I’m your colleague, it spreads the embarrassment around.” He pushed down the turn signal to indicate a left turn and rolled to a stop at the red light. “Yeah, I get the feeling that they’re afraid of you, and they want me there to protect them.”
I snorted, the laughter bubbling up and spilling over.
Striker sent me a grin. “You laugh, but I’m serious.”
> “No pressure. So my role is puzzler? But honestly, is this setting you up for another boots-on-the-ground mission? You just got back from being down range. I’d like you to be home for a bit if it’s possible.”
“Yeah, there’s a chance that if this turns into a case, they want Iniquus to work, that they’d want to read me into the program for next action steps.”
Striker’s phone rang, and he answered. As Striker ran through logistical data on a case that I wasn’t working on, I turned and looked out the window to give him what privacy I could.
It had started to rain.
As big fat droplets spattered the windshield, Striker flicked on the wipers.
I looked down at the cubby in my door to reassure myself my umbrella was there.
Posting my elbow on the armrest, I watched the passing scenery.
We drove by a church cemetery, mildly neglected, in need of a weedwhacker.
The headstones were darkened by the rain.
I pulled up a picture of my parents. I’m not going to go see you guys tonight at the cemetery, I thought. I want to visit when it’s dry and sunny. When I’m in a better mood and handling things.
My attention caught on a mother walking with her toddler posted on her hip. She had a broad umbrella with fanciful colors covering them. The toddler held her legs straight out, I guessed, so her yellow rain boots with big googly eyes and duck-billed toes didn’t slip off her feet. Her little baby's arms were tight around her mom’s neck, and she looked like she might just close her eyes for a nap.
And just like that, I was back wading around in my memories:
My dad’s funeral had been on a rainy day.
I had hidden under the overwide umbrella in a black dress and my gray rain boots with the splashes of bright pink roses. My hands rested on the wheelchair handles as I looked down at the pale skin of my mom’s scalp. I found myself counting the thin strands of hair that still held in place, that defied her medications’ decree that they release from their follicles and fall away.
How odd that those few strands of brown felt like perseverance. Like hope.
She reached up, and I wrapped her ice-cold fingers in mine.
Spyder stood to my side with the umbrella handle in his tight grip. I could feel his energy radiating outward, encircling Mom and me.
That was unusual.
Like most of the special operators I knew, Spyder typically wore his energy next to his skin. He was usually vacuum-sealed in it. Spyder said those who learned to manipulate their auras survived; they were less visible to the enemy.
I wondered if that was how death found my dad. His aura was expansive and bright.
The Unitarian minister hovered over Dad’s coffin and raised her hands in benediction just as the sharp crack of lightning snapped at the clouds like a whip lashing out to move things along. The imperative was met by thunderous hooves galloping across the sky, making my dad’s friends pull in tightly and cower against each other.
The reverberations in the air made me shiver.
We hadn’t expected rain that day. I looked down at the wheels on Mom’s chair and watched them sink deeper into the clay. I wondered how we’d get her out of here after Dad was lowered into the ground.
None of this was something I had imagined.
I knew that the possibility of going to my mom’s funeral was very real. It was only a matter of time before her illness claimed her.
Well, that was true for everyone, wasn’t it? A matter of time until we died. But that time had seemed out in the distance when I thought about me, or Spyder, or Dad.
Dad was so strong and vibrant. He sparked with energy and vitality.
My mom… Well, the doctor said he didn’t know how long Mom had for sure. He said that it helped that Mom had a spirit hungry for life. Though if you looked at her that day, you’d say that spirit had been chewed up and swallowed down by her pain.
That they were lowering Dad into the ground, as my mom sank into the mud by his side… It just wasn’t what I had prepared myself for.
“May his soul rest, and may all of his friends, family, and loved ones find peace,” the minister concluded.
Spyder put his hand on my shoulder, and I turned to look at him. “Lexi, I need you to hold the umbrella over us. I’m going to carry your mother to the car.”
Obediently, I reached for the handle and watched my dad’s best friend scoop Mom into his arms.
Spyder was incredibly strong. He lifted my mom with reverence.
She looked so fragile. Drained of life force. Bereft.
Bereft was a good word. It glued together the sound “bare” and the sound you make when you’re sucker-punched in the stomach. That’s how I felt. I was seventeen, and I’d lost my hero, my dad; it certainly felt like a blow to my diaphragm.
Like I couldn’t breathe.
Like I was going to die.
Dutifully following along beside Spyder, I had to reach my arm straight up to cover his head with the umbrella.
We settled into the car and headed back to the church for lunch. There were far too many people who came to pay their respects than would fit into our tiny apartment.
I sat in the middle between Spyder and Mom as Stan, Dad’s cop buddy, drove.
No one spoke. It had been a very quiet day.
Pay attention was the impression I was picking up from that parental energy behind my shoulder. It was like my parents were right there in the car with us. All I had to do was turn my head, and there they’d be.
This sensation… I both liked and didn’t like this. I wanted my parents to be near, to guide me. I thought that was a thing. Sort of like praying. But this wasn’t supportive as much as it was anxiety-producing.
When I thought that, I got another distinct impression that they wanted me to feel angst.
Was that a thing?
I have a friend, Sophia. She was haunted by a…mmm, my mind wanted to call it a ghost, but it wasn’t. It was something right out of Hollywood—The Mummy. Sophia was an archaeologist who accidentally removed a ring from a sacred place. And until she found a way to put it back, her life had been a series of horrific events.
Maybe I’d picked up some kind of being—some force—masquerading as my parents?
No, that…that didn’t seem right.
This sensation was stressful. And to be honest, I was full up on stress today.
If this kept up, I’d talk to someone who might have experience—like a medium or something. Maybe my mentor Miriam Laugherty, who helped me develop my ESP skills, would know. Though, I didn’t remember her ever saying that she could commune with dead people.
There weren’t a lot of folks I’d talk openly about such sensations.
If this was my mom and dad, I should listen if they were trying to warn me.
And if this was the brain trauma… Well, I’d have to report that to Dr. Carlon.
Thinking my brain was manifesting hallucinations was a whole lot scarier than thinking my parents were haunting me.
Remember. You must remember, something in my head was saying.
Remember what?
I wriggled uncomfortably in my seat.
Yeah, I’d never experienced something like this before.
Striker reached for my hand. “You’re singing it again.”
I turned to him. “What’s that?”
He was off the phone now. “If my kindergarten memory serves me right, that’s London Bridges.”
“Huh. Probably just thinking about London Davidson.” She was, after all, planning that big pre-wedding shindig that no one—outside of Christen’s dad’s friends—wanted to attend. It would put me face to face with the Assembly. And I loathed them all.
“Not a knowing?”
Hmmm, a knowing?
I had two that I generally relied on.
When I got the heebie-jeebies, I knew it was time to get the heck out of Dodge because I was imminently at risk. The few times I ignored those feelings that screamed “run!
” were the times that I came to regret.
I didn’t have heebie-jeebies right now. That part of me felt calm.
The second way was much more cryptic. When knowings showed up, a crisis headed my way. Usually, those warnings flashed like bright throbbing red words. Danger! Danger!
Striker had brought London Bridges to my attention. It didn’t feel like a knowing. There was no oscillating background with throbbing neon-colored words painted across my psyche.
I supposed it was nothing.
I hoped it was nothing.
But now, with this weird sensation of my parent’s etheric concern and just a general “get ready, it’s going to be bad” trepidation, this next week felt perilous.
Chapter Twelve
Once we presented our IDs at Langley’s guard station, parked, and walked the expansive lot, we’d made it to the front doors of the CIA.
Luckily, the rain had stopped.
Oliver, a suit with a noncommittal expression, met Striker and me out front, guided us through the doors, and badged us past security.
Our footfalls on the highly polished terrazzo clacked sound waves into the gleaming white halls, where they bounced and echoed.
It was a lonely sound.
I’ve been here on several occasions. There was a mausoleum-like quality to those cold stone walls. This somberness must be hard to walk into each day and maintain warmth and contentment as a person. To me, the sterility was dispiriting.
Iniquus could be that way.
When our guests came into the front atrium, they were met with designed rigidity. The monotone was supposed to have a machine-like quality to it, everything humming along.
The colors were chrome and black. The workers’ clothing styles depended on their job titles, but always in requisite grays.
Except for me. Command preferred that I stand out amongst the Iniquus throng, wearing bright colors. It was a psychological stratagem that worked like a charm. Amongst the military-like hardness, I was a spot of soft and gentle. The bad guy could tell me all the secrets because I was different, benign, an ally against the hard men in gray.
