Bloodshot

by Cherie Priest

  “Your mother wanted her to stay gone, and your father wanted her to come home, is that right?”

  “Yes.” His eyes narrowed, watering with exhaustion or very old pain. “How did you know?”

  “I told you, I went there and talked to them, remember? Your dad gave me your stage name. Your mom acted like she wanted to burn my face with a road flare.”

  “That’s them.” He waved one hand carelessly, then froze it in midair. His body language and his tone changed abruptly, to something sober and tense. “You spoke to them?”

  “I told you I—”

  “You went to visit them? At their house?”

  “Yes,” I told him, not sure where he was headed with this line of interrogation, but sensing that I wouldn’t like the destination even a little bit. “But I told you that before.”

  “I wasn’t thinking. We …” He dropped the glass and it stayed upright, but sloshed. “We have to go back there. What if you led the agents right to them?”

  I held up my hands in a gesture that wouldn’t have stopped an aggressive poodle, much less a frantic, tipsy drag queen. “Don’t, Adrian. Don’t go there, not like this. Your parents aren’t in hiding, are they? I was inside their house, yes,” I confessed, and then I grasped at straws. “And it looked to me like they’d been there for years. The government doesn’t want your parents. It could’ve had them at any time—”

  “Okay. Okay, yes. You’re right,” he said, and it was pitifully apparent that he was leaning on my words, trying to calm himself down. Hey, I know it when I see it. “You’re right, they’ve been there since before I was born. Nobody wants anything from them. Everybody knows they don’t know anything … except, my father gave you my stage name …”

  “Well, he sort of scribbled it—”

  “He told you where to find me. If he told you, he could’ve told anybody!”

  “Goddammit, Adrian, settle down. He didn’t tell just anybody, he told me—and I was doing a very convincing cop impression, I’ll have you know.”

  He glowered at me and then he growled, “You mean, you showed up in an official-looking car, in a suit?”

  Oh. I got it. “Well, it wasn’t … it wasn’t a black suit, and it wasn’t a black car. And I had a badge …” I looked back down at Peter Desarme’s clothes on Adrian’s back, and his badge on my kitchen counter, and I figured he, too, would’ve likely had an official-looking car to complete the package.

  “You don’t understand. My parents, they … They aren’t very trusting of authority, but they fear it and they’ll cave to it, if it comes on hard enough. Please, for the love of God, tell me you did not lead anybody to my parents.”

  “I couldn’t have,” I hoped, and I prayed. “Listen, I was not being followed. I’m smarter than that, and more careful than that. If I weren’t, I never would’ve survived this long.”

  He was tapping his foot and tapping his wrist on the edge of the counter, trying to come to some kind of decision. “You would’ve noticed someone tailing you in a car.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, yes.”

  “But what if you were being followed some other way? Something less obvious?”

  “Like what?” I wanted to know, but a word bubbled to the surface of my attention, and I didn’t like it. “Like with some kind of … I don’t know. Surveillance system.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” he mused, poking at the wallet. “Something like a satellite.”

  “A satellite?” My blood went colder than my drink. “That’s not possible.”

  But Adrian didn’t say anything to help slow the ramp-up of my paranoid frenzy. “The technology wasn’t really live yet when I was still in the service, but you could see it coming. Satellites were the next thing that would save us—we’d be watching our enemies from space, in high definition.”

  “But … but can they do that now?” I demanded. “That’s something that happens on TV, and in movies once in a while. But in real life? Bullshit. I call bullshit.”

  “Call it what you want. The gear these guys were wearing—it was advanced stuff. Those earpieces.” He made a fiddly motion, as if he were holding one up. “Those microphones. A quarter the size of what we were using a decade ago.”

  The only satellites I knew about that didn’t carry TV signals fed straight to the Internet, like Google Earth … and that was just a snapshot, right? Satellites—which is to say, powerful cameras out in orbit—only give you an image. They don’t give you live video feeds.

  Unless I was wrong. Unless there were other kinds of satellites.

  I racked my brain, trying to dredge up memories of CNN coverage or other news organizations showing footage from Iraq or Afghanistan. Some of those military satellites were more advanced, weren’t they?

  Whoo boy. The implications made my head spin. I just might have stumbled across some whole new and exciting thing to be terrified of. I tried to catch up and calm down. I said, “Sure, fine. Tiny trackers, the size of pocket change, okay. But that’s just radio contact, old-fashioned and reliable, right?”

  “Probably,” he acknowledged.

  And then he started taking off his clothes.

  “Not that I’m complaining, but what the hell are you doing?”

  “Peter Desarme might’ve had a tracker on him. It could be anywhere, sewn into a seam or clipped into a pocket,” he said as he kicked the pants off—revealing the hilarity-inducing fact that he was still wearing the silver spangled bikini in which he’d performed earlier. Apparently this didn’t call for any comment on his part, and if he noticed I was looking, he didn’t bring it up. “Here,” he said, chucking the pants at me. “Feel around all the seams, turn the pockets inside out. Do you have a washer or dryer here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, we’re going to have to run all this stuff through them, on the highest heat settings.”

  “Even if we don’t find anything?” I took the pants and began pinching around the bottom hem, feeling for … I didn’t know what, exactly.

  “Especially if we don’t find anything. If we find something, we can rip it out and toss it into the microwave. If we don’t, and we want to play it safe, we’ll have to destroy the potential threat somehow or another. A good hot-water wash and an hour in the dryer ought to do it.”

  “I still don’t know what I’m feeling for.”

  “Anything that doesn’t belong. Something the size of a shirt button, or maybe as big as a dime. Just … keep looking.” He was down to the spangled britches, and I was dying for him to turn around. Yes, I was still wondering about the tuck. It couldn’t be very comfortable, could it?

  “Do you, uh,” I broached. “Want a robe or something?”

  “If you’ve got one,” he said without looking up or standing up.

  I was about to tell him he could go grab one off the back of the bathroom door, thereby forcing him to get up off the floor and walk away from me … but that felt like too much calculation even for me. So instead I wandered over there and got it for him, and tossed it on his head.

  He frowned at me, removed it from his skull, and slipped his arms into it. The fit was kind of tight around his shoulders, but oh well. I’m no burly man-shaped thing, and I didn’t have any stray clothing that would fit such a body. He’d have to make do.

  Without a word of thanks he tossed me the shirt he’d been wearing, a white button-up. “Give this a once-over, in case I missed anything. And give me those pants back.”

  We were double-checking each other. I got it.

  I was happy to accommodate him because I didn’t seriously think there was any kind of signaling device inside the clothing. Usually I can sense that stuff. I can’t smell it exactly, though there is a faint metallic, ozone-y odor that goes along with such things. It’s just a sense I get when I’m around cell phones, televisions, cameras, and the like. It might have something to do with my psychic sense, like it’s tapping that same electromagnetic whatever-the-heck. I don’t know. Bu
t I definitely wasn’t getting any vibe off the duds.

  Far be it from me to discourage anyone’s paranoia, though.

  We ended up sitting together on the floor, going over everything with a figurative fine-tooth comb before throwing everything in the wash to rinse out the very last of our phobias.

  Following this act of domesticity, we adjourned once more to the kitchen bar and resumed drinking. We also resumed our original topic, because one thing had stuck in the back of my head.

  “Hey, when was the last time you even talked to your parents?” I asked. “I got the distinct impression you weren’t in touch.” Maybe we weren’t friends enough to pry about such matters, but we were well past coddling each other’s feelings. Already.

  “Years ago. They were finished with me when they found the feather boa in the back of my closet while I was overseas for the last time. But I try to look in on them once in a while. I want to make sure they’re all right, or …” If he had anything left to say on the subject, he kept it to himself. “Come to think of it, I really do have to go check on them.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “Forget it,” I told him, even though dawn was only a few hours off and once the sun came up, there was precious little I could do to stop him. “It’s too dangerous. Worst-case scenario, they’re getting interrogated right now, and there’s nothing you could do except go barging in and get caught.”

  “They could be in danger. I should check—”

  “Not right now you shouldn’t.” I put a hand on his arm—a risky prospect, but he didn’t lash out or even do that thing guys do where they flex up the moment you touch them, lest you think they weren’t total hard-bodies 100 percent of the time. He just sagged, drooping on the bar stool that serves as dining furniture in just about any home of mine.

  “I’ll wait until tomorrow night.” It was a compromise between what he wanted and what he knew was most likely best for everyone involved. “It won’t do any good for me to show up now. If they’re being interviewed, I’ll only make them look like liars who know more than they’ve said.”

  “Attaboy.” I patted his arm and this time he flexed, but he might have only been pulling himself upright from his sad-man droop.

  My phone chose that moment to ring, and ring loudly enough that we both jumped and damn near punched each other from the pure surprise of it.

  I scrambled for it and didn’t immediately recognize the number it displayed, which told me it was probably one of those telemarketers who isn’t supposed to have anybody’s cell phone number, but somehow always does. But then I remembered that I’d called Cal, and I pressed the button to answer the call before I completely missed it.

  “Hello,” I said. Noncommittal. Blasé.

  “Ms. Pendle?”

  It was all I could do not to melt into a little puddle of relief, right there on the floor. For a moment I considered it; after all, isn’t that what linoleum is for—easy cleanup? But I restrained myself and said, “Ian, thank God. I had no idea if you’d get my message or not.”

  Whoops. I’d let his name slip.

  Adrian noticed, damn him right to hell. He raised an eyebrow in a perfect arch, like a child’s drawing of a bird’s wing.

  I gave him a hand-flap that told him to stay quiet, and turned away from him, strolling into the living room. Ian was already talking.

  “Yes, I got your message. And I was glad to hear from you. Considering the terms on which we parted—”

  “I know, I know. And again, I’m sorry I buggered off like that, but I think the fact we’re both free and able to chat implies it was the right thing to do.”

  “Have things gotten … hairier? Where you are?”

  His use of the word hairier was more hilarious than it should’ve been, but my laugh was louder than it should’ve been, too. It was a relief laugh, and those things get boisterous. “Hell yes, they’ve gotten hairier, but I’ve also got a rather significant lead or two for my trouble.” I eyeballed Adrian, who was no longer sitting on the stool, but standing in the archway that separated the kitchen from the living area, still wearing nothing but the spangly silver secret-agent underpants and my robe.

  He eyeballed me back.

  I returned my attention to the phone. Ian was saying, “Leads?”

  “Yes, good ones. I think I might have a pretty fair idea of how to go about getting your paperwork. Don’t I?” I asked the man in the archway.

  Adrian crossed his arms, bracing for a defense … then he changed his mind. He shrugged and nodded.

  “That’s wonderful news!” quoth Ian.

  “But let me ask, while I’ve got you: Is everything still all right where you are? Did you go where I told you? Have you remained there unmolested?”

  “Yes on all three counts. Your excessive precaution has proved quite helpful. We’ve done as you suggested and we’ve been utterly left alone. Lovely waterfront out here, I must say.”

  “Yeah. It’s a real delight.” I shifted the phone to the other ear.

  “In our … shall we say, ‘unmoored’ condition, I don’t have a fax machine or computer handy, but I can change that if you can send me copies, or emails, or … or however you can most easily transmit the documents. Though, heavens. Pardon my manners—we still haven’t had that money conversation yet.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Not yet. I don’t have the paperwork in my hot little hands, but that’s about to change, isn’t it?” Again, I addressed the last two words to Adrian, who nodded some more. I liked him. Cooperative gent, once you got through to him. “Will I be able to consistently reach you at this number?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve commandeered the phone from Cal, who has been most gracious about the situation.”

  “You’re awesome. And tell Cal I said that he’s awesome, too,” I said, even though I didn’t really mean it. Ian was awesome, yes. Cal was respectably competent. But he had yet to earn any serious feelings of awe on my part.

  “I’ll do so,” Ian said, and I could hear him smiling. “How long do you think it’ll be before we can have a chat about this information?”

  I said, “Hmm,” and I held the phone down against my chest. “Adrian, how long will it take us to retrieve the paperwork you stole?”

  “Depends on what you’re planning to do with it.”

  Ooh, stubborn all of a sudden.

  I gave him the answer I thought he’d swallow best. It was mostly true, anyway. “I’m going to use it for two purposes—one, to help my client possibly repair some of the damage that was done to him; and two, I’m going to do my damndest to make sure that the program is utterly disbanded, unfunded, and burned down—and then I’m going to salt the earth where it stood. Will that work for you?”

  He said, “That’ll work for me.”

  I lifted the phone back to my ear. “Ian?” I returned my attention to my client.

  “Still here.”

  “Excellent. I’m standing here with the … well, let’s call him a gentleman. I’m standing here with the gentleman who pilfered the papers you require.”

  “A gentleman?”

  “Well, a drag queen who’s not in drag, so, yeah. The important bit is that he has your papers.”

  “Is that so?”

  “A true fact.” I bobbed my head. “And he’s willing to assist with our little predicament. Adrian,” I asked again, leaving the phone up near my ear so that Ian could presumably hear any response the sometimes-drag-queen might offer. “How long will it take us to recover the paperwork?”

  “Not long.”

  “Could I trouble you to be more precise, darling?”

  The shift of his eyebrows suggested he didn’t really care to have me calling him “darling,” but I didn’t retract it. He sighed and said, “I stashed them years ago. They’re on the other side of town, but it wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get them.”

  I was right. Ian heard him. He said eagerly, “Then you can fax them, or email the
m?”

  “Okay Ian, give us through tomorrow morning to retrieve them. It’s close enough to dawn that I don’t want to give it a go tonight.”

  “Understood.” Oh, he understood all right. But impatience simmered under that one word, making it tight enough to bounce a quarter. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. Absolutely. I’ll call you when the files are secured, and we’ll proceed from there. I don’t want to put the cart in front of the horse or anything.”

  “Understood,” he said again.

  “Great. I’ll be in touch. Hang tight,” I added. Then I hung up before I could say anything dumber.

  “Hey Adrian?” I called, suddenly noticing he wasn’t standing there watching me anymore. He leaned his head out so he could see around the archway entrance.

  “What?”

  “You’re not shitting me, are you? You really do know where these files are? Because let me be crystal clear—this client of mine, I’m rather fond of him and I honestly want to help him. If you give me any runaround, you’re going to answer for it.”

  Somehow, that came out less menacing than I intended. Maybe it was the size of him, half a head taller than me and bulky as … well, as an old Navy SEAL. Or maybe it was the utter apathy on his face, in the cracks between the sadness.

  He only said, “I’m not shitting you. I know exactly where they are. I buried them under the marker my parents put up for Isabelle, in the Memorial Lawn Cemetery.”

  9

  When I rose at dusk, I could smell Adrian somewhere nearby, and for a moment it confused me. I’m easily confused when I first awaken—which probably sets me apart from very few people, I know—but it’s always a strange moment, that first snapping open of the eyelids. Many nights I awaken on the verge of a panic attack, wondering what new and hideous situation I’ve gotten myself into now. So when I shuddered myself to consciousness and smelled the burly drag queen (and the leftover glitter, and a hint of somebody’s body lotion. Mine? I guess he helped himself) … I spent a split second wondering where the hell he was and if he was trying to kill me.

  The other half of that split second remembered that I’d brought him here and he was ostensibly cooperating with me, which took me down a notch back to “cautious alertness” instead of “barely lucid hysteria.”