Fiction
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Expectations
(I’ve received a fair amount of mail that addressed the short fiction posted here at Eternity Road, most of it gratifyingly complimentary. What’s perpetually surprised me about it is how it concentrates on a handful of stories, most notably “Ceremony.” That’s my “Catholic family-values porn” piece, one of the quirkiest things I’ve ever written. I hardly expected it to appeal to anyone, even fellow Catholics who share my admittedly off-axis attitudes toward sex. But those who’ve commented on it have expressed a hunger for more in that weird vein.
What is it? Respectful erotica? A love-and-family story with a dash of spice? I’ve never been sure...but I’ve wondered, ever since I posted it, whether the impulse that caused me to birth it, if you’ll pardon the choice of words, would ever return for an encore.
Perhaps it has. Judge for yourself.)
I'd learned to expect nothing. I knew my limitations, my essential insignificance. I'd never dared to dream she was attainable. But sometimes the body will dare more than the head. And fortune favors him who dares.
Carmen was the Holy Grail to the company's young men. Her beauty was petitely, classically Japanese: her skin smooth and golden, her shoulder-length black hair gently waved but otherwise unstyled, her figure delicately feminine. Her dress was simple and modest: a silk blouse, a knee-length wool or linen skirt, and black leather pumps Monday through Thursday; a sweater, jeans, and sneakers on Casual Friday. Her only ornament was a small gold crucifix pendant, worn just below her throat. Her grooming was inconspicuous but flawless. She usually wore a light perfume, but no makeup that I could see.
She was alluring in that indefinable way that defies reduction to its parts. You didn't look at her and see her bosom, or her legs, or her pert little tush, or even her Oriental Madonna's face. You saw Carmen, whole and perfect. And if you were male and young, or even male and not so young, you immediately wanted to take her in your arms. In an engineering firm that employed nearly six hundred men, the majority of them under thirty and single, and barely two hundred women, nearly all of them over forty and married, she exerted an appeal that could have torn the building from its foundations.
But she didn't seem to notice. At least, if she did, she declined to exploit it or play to it. She was courteous toward everyone, men and women, single and married. She didn't flirt. She carried herself with a natural grace and self-assurance that would have done credit to a reigning queen. She wasn't overtly glamorous or sexy; she was merely as close to an angel as human flesh can get.
She didn't encourage any of the innumerable young men who sought to elicit her interest, Indeed, over three years working alongside her, I'd never heard her utter a word that wasn't utterly professional. That didn't stop them from coming at her in waves...and being turned aside, one after the next.
At thirty-seven years of age, a homely, balding also-ran like me had no business even fantasizing about beautiful, poised, talented, going-places twenty-six-year old Carmen Yoshibi. But that didn't keep my heart from speeding up whenever she passed my cubicle, or my mouth from going dry whenever she looked my way.
I have no illusions about myself. I'm a decent design engineer, but no candidate for greatness. I've run small projects by myself, but I haven't got the temperament for managing large ones. I'm not suited for customer liaison. I'm the sort a company sticks in the corner, feeds a stream of routine tasks, and generally ignores except for an annual performance review and a modest merit raise.
I have pride, but I know my limitations. It's important to know your limitations; the knowledge keeps you from overreaching. If you have no chance of making a big breakthrough or designing a killer product, neither are you in much danger of doing something ridiculous that would embarrass the company or cost it money.
To me, that's responsibility. Realism. Stick to what you know. Don't promise what you're not sure you can deliver. Admit it when you don't know or need help. Advise and help when you can. It teaches your coworkers to trust your abilities, and your management to trust your words. The world might not beat a path to your door, but you can go home at the end of the day knowing that you earned your pay.
How many men can justly expect more than that from life? I didn't. Which is why, when God smiled upon me and deposited the keys to heaven in my hands, I almost dropped them out of sheer disbelief.
I was surprised, and more than a little unsettled, to be offered the lead architect position on the EL-17. I'd never done anything that large or complex before. Despite my years in aerostructures, I had a lot to learn before I could even outline the problem. Harry Toussaint, my manager, promised me a first-class supporting cast, engineers whose several expertises would complement mine. He was so obviously anxious for me to accept the responsibility that I couldn't say no to him.
I hadn't guessed that the first subordinate assigned me would be Carmen.
Harry asked us to put together a general operating concept for presentation to the customer, told us we'd be alone for a while before the other engineers became available, and assured us we'd have all the support he could provide. Carmen took it with more aplomb than I did. I sat there with my jaw sagging as she drew him out on just how long "a while" might be, and what sort of support, in terms of computers, software, and instruction, he could winkle out of the project budget. When we left his office, I felt as if I'd just survived a nasty traffic accident. Carmen's gentle smile never flickered.
As his door closed behind us, she took me by the arm, pulled me into a small conference room, and breathed a mock-dramatic sigh of relief.
"I thought that would go on forever," she murmured as she seated herself. "Are you as scared as I am?"
I dropped into a chair facing her and nodded, still grappling with the gravity of the assignment.
"Harry's going to expect the document within the month," she said. "I hope your social schedule can stand a little compression."
"I, uh, think I can make room. How and when do we start?"
She dimpled. "How? With pencils, pads, and coffee. When? Now sounds about right."
"This late on a Friday?"
She glanced at her watch and nodded. "It's only four." She cocked an eyebrow. "Do you have a date or something?"
"Uh, no."
"We can get a lot done in an hour or two." She rose and headed for the corridor. "I'll be back in a jiffy."
Five minutes later Carmen was back with a pair of graph-paper pads and two Styrofoam cups of what our cafeteria passes off as coffee. She set it all down on the table, swung the conference room door closed, resumed her seat, and slid her chair toward mine until they were touching. I fancied I could feel her body heat, even through the layers of clothing between us. Her perfume, which I'd learned to ignore at ordinary conversational distance, swirled through my head, arrowed to the center of my brain and pitched camp there.
My body stiffened involuntarily. She noticed at once.
"Something wrong?" She looked honestly concerned.
"Uh, no, just a...a back spasm." I did my best to smile, hoping it wouldn't look forced. "You seem to have an approach in mind already. Could you outline it for me?"
She held my eyes a moment longer, nodded, and started to sketch on the pad before her, narrating her concept as she went. I fixed my gaze on the pad, struggled to ignore that maddening scent, and started an internal litany: We're just working together. Nothing more. It's just work, it's just work, it's just work...
But the mind's control over the body is incomplete. At least, it is for me. What we were there to do was insignificant next to the fact of Carmen beside me. The incompatibilities of our ages, our positions, and our prospects in the company had faded into invisibility. She was too beautiful, too vital, and too graceful for me to think of her as just a colleague.
I developed an erection. No, that's not quite right. It didn't "develop;" it sprang from my groin like a guided missile, tenting my trousers as it strained for release. I hunched forward a little further, hoping to conceal it beneath the shadow of my upper body. Hoping further that it would subside after I'd had a few minutes' to accustom myself to the temptation beside me.
No such luck. It only seemed to get larger and harder. Worse, the friction against my clothing soon elicited a slow leak of seminal fluid. My body was unimpressed with my attempt to treat Carmen with impersonal collegiality.
I started to fidget, shifting from side to side as subtly as I could in an attempt to relieve the pressure. If anything, it had the opposite effect. The drip got worse.
And Carmen noticed.
"Is something the matter?" she asked.
I forced a grin. "No, I just...I'll be right back." I pushed my chair back and started to rise, intending to head for the men's room and have a stern chat with my rebellious organ. Carmen laid a hand on my arm, and I froze.
She was staring directly at the crotch of my trousers. There was a wet spot there, large and growing, easily visible against the taut beige fabric.
About two hundred years later, she looked directly into my eyes and asked, "Is that for me?"
I couldn't speak. I could barely draw a breath.
She rose, took me by the arms, and urged me to rise as well. Before I realized what was happening, she'd unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped me, and lowered my trousers and briefs to expose my betrayer, steel-hard and still leaking.
I don't have words for the state of stunned incredulity I occupied at that moment. It could hardly get deeper...until Carmen put one warm hand to the underside of my penis and slid it down to cup my scrotum. She caressed it gently.
Caressed "it?" She was caressing me. That hunk of willfully rampant flesh was my genital organ. I couldn't disown it, any more than I could ignore it. Carmen was fondling my most intimate parts with the delicacy of a lover. A practiced lover, completely at ease with her beloved's body and determined to bring him to the pinnacle of pleasure.
"Carmen..." I gasped. What little restraint I possessed was near to failing. "I can't...I mean, I mustn't --"
"Shhh. Why not?" she murmured. She ran a fingertip along the root of my scrotum, and I gasped again. More of my seminal fluid flowed forth, wetting her arm. "You can't imagine how wonderful this is...how flattered I am."
"What? Are you saying --"
Midnight-black eyes riveted my own. "Yes. Exactly." She stroked me with an exquisite underhand motion, fingers moving cylindrically around my tumescence. I moaned in sweet agony. "Should I continue with this, or would you rather we went back to work?"
I nodded mutely.
"You never made a move or gave me a sign," she murmured, still stroking me gently. More fluid pulsed out of me, dampening her arm all the way to the elbow. "Always the consummate professional, polite, reserved, almost completely impersonal. While all those boys swarmed around me, pestering me until I could hardly think. Why, Paul? Why not even a hint?"
I shuddered before her ministrations. She seemed to be deliberately holding me just before the point of climax, prolonging my tension and letting it build to an irresistible height. As powerfully as I yearned for release, part of me never wanted it to end. I was ready to fall to my knees and worship her.
Her caressing motion slowed, stopped. Her hand left my penis and went to my hip. I caught my breath, gradually mastered myself, and studied her face. It was as tight with excitement as my own. There was no hint of cruelty in her expression, only an eager delight.
"This is too precious to waste," she murmured. She bent, pulled up my pants, and swiftly but tenderly restored me to decency. "Go get your jacket and briefcase."
Carmen's apartment was as simple, modest, and graceful as everything else about her. The furniture was Danish Modern, of classic line. A scattering of matted Impressionist prints adorned the walls. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the living-room windows, bathing the little room in serenity.
She led me to her bedroom and gestured me toward her bed as she started to disrobe. I could only sit and watch, still unable to believe it was all real. Presently she stood nude before me, glory wrapped in golden flesh, arms spread and smiling gently.
Her crucifix pendant was still around her neck.
"Do you like me?" she asked.
"You can't imagine," I breathed.
She dimpled. "Then why are you still dressed?"
I jammed my zipper twice in my rush to join her.
When I was as nude as she, she flowed up to me, let her fingers trail over my chest, and took my crucifix pendant between thumb and forefinger.
"Christian?" she asked.
"Catholic."
"So am I." She pressed me down onto my back, lay full length atop me, and we kissed for the first time. I wrapped my arms around her, she laid her face against my chest, and we stayed like that, unmoving and unspeaking, for a long moment.
"Paul," she said, "I want you to know that I take this very seriously."
"Hm?" I was still too lost in the moment to attend to anything but the wonder of it.
She pulled her head up and caught my eyes again. "I'm a virgin," she said, barely above a whisper.
"Huh? But why --"
"Because I take you seriously. You and what we're about to do. How do you feel about it?"
"Carmen," I croaked, halfway between bewilderment and insanity, "I can hardly believe it's happening at all. I've never imagined that you'd want me as more than a coworker. What are you asking me?"
She put her hands to the sides of my face and studied it.
"I want you so badly that I ache from it," she said. "I've wanted you for months, years, almost from the day we were introduced. You're so sweet and humble, and kinder and more responsible than I ever imagined a man could be. But if I take you into my body, will you be accountable for the consequences? No matter what they are?"
My chest tightened. The first hint of tension appeared in her expression.
"Are you asking me to marry you?"
"Not necessarily," she said. "But I won't use contraception. I don't believe in it. And I won't abort a child." Her intensity was unchallengeable. "If I conceive a child by you, will you do the right thing, or will you run away from him -- and me?"
I can't call what I was doing at that moment "thinking." It was too exalted, too thankful, and too wild with glee. A man who reaches my age never having married can't allow himself any grand expectations about love or progeny. But that's what Carmen was offering me. Everything I'd ever desired, without reservation, if only I could match my commitment to hers.
I let my hands slide down her back, took a firm grip on her buttocks, and pulled her over me until the head of my penis nestled between her labia. Her eyes widened, but she held her tongue.
"Carmen Yoshibi, fulfillment of all my wildest dreams, will you marry me? Join me at the altar at Our Lady of the Pines and let Father Ray join us in matrimony? Share my bed and bear my children? Care for me and be cared for by me? For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death do us part?"
She paled. An eon elapsed between each breath and the next.
"Paul Thomas Mattison," she murmured shakily, "deepest yearning of my heart, will you marry me? Take me for your wife and the mother of your children? For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death do us part?"
"I take it that means yes," I whispered.
"I knew you were sharp," she replied.
"How did you know my middle name?"
The corners of her eyes crinkled. "You'd be surprised what I know about you."
"Then you know I'm not particularly well to do, don't you? I hope you don't expect --"
"I expect nothing," she said, "but your love and fidelity."
I hugged her against me as the last of my fears dissolved. "Damn, I don't have a ring on me. Poor planning!"
She tensed her legs, jiggled briefly up and down, and I was at once fully lodged inside her.
"Under the circumstances," she gasped, "I think this will do."
She did conceive by me, perhaps that very night, for just nine months later Raphael Paul Mattison, our first child, emerged from her loins. Twenty years, three sons and two daughters from that blessed day, she and what she has given me are still the fulfillment of all my wildest dreams.
Gentlemen, don't go astray because of low expectations. Ladies, don't let them!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Conspiracies
As he stepped through the front doors of Arcologics, Geoff Nolan mustered all the aplomb his thirty-two years could command and donned his most urbane Washington smile. The redhead at the reception desk looked up with a professionally noncommital expression.
"May I help you, sir?"
Nolan inclined his head briefly and produced his Secret Service ID. "Is there any possibility Dr. Iverson might be able to see me? I don't have an appointment."
The receptionist's eyes went wide. She pressed a button on the discreet plasma panel before her and muttered a few inaudible words into her headset microphone. A moment later, she nodded, pressed another button, and looked back up at Nolan with a perfectly blank expression.
"Mr. Iverson will see you at once, sir." The swinging doors behind her parted as a gray-haired, nattily dressed matron entered the lobby. "Mrs. Berglund will show you to his office."
Nolan nodded.
Nolan's escort ushered him through the open door of a surprisingly modest office. The furniture was wood rather than sheet steel, but it was limited to a desk and three bookcases. The walls were but sparsely adorned, and the available surfaces were strikingly free of trophies and knickknacks. Seated at the desk was an athletically slender, pleasant-faced middle-aged man, hands folded before him, whose piercing brown eyes glinted with amused curiosity. He rose and extended a hand as Nolan stepped into the room.
"Agent Nolan? I'm Todd Iverson."
Nolan took the proffered hand and shook it. "I'm honored, sir."
Iverson waved him into a guest chair. When the two had sat, Iverson canted back in his seat and swung his feet up onto his desk. Nolan struggled to repress his reaction.
The owner and CEO of Arcologics was wearing platform boots with high, thick heels. They were significantly built up, two inches or more at the toe and at least five at the heel. Iverson smiled as Nolan's eyes fastened upon his footgear.
"Go ahead," he said. "Ask."
Nolan smiled formally. "Not necessary, sir. I have two things I'm supposed to tell you before we start to chat seriously."
Iverson cocked an eyebrow and gestured to Nolan to continue.
"First, I'm not here at President Sumner's request. Not officially. In case anyone should ask."
That brought both of Iverson's eyebrows up. "Surely you're not freelancing?"
Nolan smiled. "Not at all, sir. It's not generally known that not all our orders come directly from the president. In this case, that will prove useful." He hesitated a moment, reluctant to speak the name of his commander. "Officially, Senior Agent Ryan McFarlane dispatched me to speak to you."
Iverson's face was as unreadable as a statue. "And the second thing?"
Nolan paused, searching for exactly the right words.
"The president requires the most complete confidentiality about this entire exchange and everything that might follow from it. Regardless of what might follow from it."
Iverson's expression remained unchanged. "Leaks?"
"Yes, sir. They've been a thorn in the Administration's side since the president took office. Not everyone in the executive branch feels obligated to obey the president's orders. Even when they've been expressed directly to the individual in question."
Nolan sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap, eyes fixed upon Iverson's own.
Presently Iverson nodded. "All right, you have my word." He pulled his boots off the desk and leaned forward, renewed intensity in his eyes. "Please proceed."
"The Secret Service has learned some...disturbing things about a certain figure on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. When we briefed President Sumner, he decided at once that he needed outside counsel beyond what we could provide. Technological counsel."
Iverson frowned faintly. "How did my name come up?"
"I'm not supposed to say, sir. The president is very anxious to speak with you, if you could spare the time. I'd escort you to the Oval Office myself, if you were available today. Could you give me some idea of when you might be able to visit with him?"
Iverson sat unspeaking for a long moment. Nolan began to worry. He'd been forbidden to use anything but persuasion. He wondered whether his errand, so closely concealed from the rest of the Detail and the Washington influence circuit, would come to nothing.
With no warning, Arcologics' CEO vaulted out of his chair, grabbed a windbreaker from his coat tree, and strode for the door.
"Got a helicopter?"
Nolan fell into step behind him. "Uh, no, sir."
"That's all right. We'll use mine."
Every Secret Service agent tasked to White House duties is armed at all times and permanently authorized to use deadly force if, in his sole judgment, it is vital to the protection of the president. Iverson had to know it. Yet it didn't prevent him from charging past every White House security checkpoint and into the Oval Office as if he were the president himself. Nolan remained two steps behind him the whole way, frantically gesturing to the agents around him to hold their fire and act as if nothing untoward was going on.
Stephen Sumner rose as they entered the sanctum sanctorum. The president was as composed as always. Rather than come forward to greet his visitor, he waited for Iverson to come to him. The two clasped hands over the antique desk that dated back to Grover Cleveland.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Iverson."
Iverson grinned impishly. "Anything for a fellow Onteoran, Mr. President. Besides, it was a real gas telling all those ATCs that I was on White House business. I made it even money that I'd be shot out of the sky."
Sumner laughed. "Not a chance. Geoff let me know you were coming as you lifted off."
Iverson flashed a black look at Nolan, who grinned through his blush. "Spoilsport!"
The three took seats in the office's conversation area. When they'd made themselves comfortable, Iverson said, "Of what service can I be to the federal government, sir?"
Sumner didn't answer at once. He straightened the seams in his trousers, folded his hands carefully in his lap, and said, "I assume that rendering a service to my administration won't be a problem for you in any way?"
Iverson's eyes glinted. "Not in the slightest, sir."
Sumner nodded. "I hope you'll continue to think so. I have a problem I can't solve with political savvy or the assets on hand. Have you been following the progress of the pacification effort in Pakistan?"
Iverson pursed his lips. "Not in detail, sir. Are there new problems?"
The president scowled at the floor. "You could say that. Since the destruction of Islamabad, insurgent activity has acquired a new intensity, and a new focus. Before that, the rebels were organized along classic 'swamp fox' guerrilla-tactic lines. They risked as little as possible, while deploying their operatives to inflict the maximum damage on our forces and sow as much discord as possible among the populace. Since Islamabad, they've reorganized along more conventional military lines, daring our boys to confront them in pitched battles -- but with a difference."
Iverson's eyes darkened. "Innocent vanguards?"
Sumner nodded again. "Exactly. But not entirely innocent. A substantial fraction of the women have been wearing suicide belts." He winced. "The evidence suggests that they're not in control of the detonations. My field commanders want the authority to treat them as combatants." His voice dropped. "They have a backer on the JCS who might just give them that authority, no matter what I might say about it."
Iverson sat unspeaking. Nolan, who'd listened avidly but with little comprehension, was seized by sudden alarm. His hand went to the crucifix in his pocket and gripped it tightly.
"That would pretty much be the end of our public-relations efforts there, wouldn't it?" Iverson said softly.
Sumner nodded. "It's not like we're revered for nuking their capital city, though the majority of Pakis understand the affair well enough to have accepted us as a force for reconstruction rather than a colonial occupier. But to fire on a wedge of seemingly unarmed women because they might be carrying explosives...Mr. Iverson, I don't think we'd have a chance in hell after that."
Iverson sat forward on his sofa. "Mr. President, may I ask a favor?" Sumner nodded uncertainly, and Iverson smiled. "Would you please call me Todd? No one I know addresses me as 'Mister.'"
Sumner's expression went from monitory to delighted in an instant. "Certainly, Todd. Can you bring yourself to call me Steve?"
Iverson laughed. "If Geoff here will agree not to shoot me, I think I can manage it."
Sumner's grin lit his entire being. "Then let's get down to cases."
"Have we covered all the essentials?" Iverson said. He sipped from his coffee cup and grinned. "I didn't know there was coffee this good. Any chance of getting some for the, ah, home mess?"
Nolan chuckled. Sumner smirked. "It's one of the few perks of this office that's more of a pleasure than a cross to bear. I don't think I could have kept Geoff on the Detail without it." He pressed a button on the intercom panel at his right hand. "I'll have a steward bag a pound of beans for you."
"Well, however this turns out," Iverson said, "you've got my vote come next election. You know," he said, suddenly pensive, "my wife would never believe this. I can't tell her, can I?"
Sumner shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
Iverson shrugged. A Navy steward entered and inquired of the president's wishes. Sumner waved at Iverson. "Please bag a pound...no, make that two pounds of coffee beans for my guest. He'll be taking them with him when he leaves." The steward bowed and departed.
Nolan thought he'd kept his expression pleasantly neutral, but the president must have noticed something. "No envy, now, Geoff. You get to drink it here."
Nolan inclined his head. "Of course, sir."
Iverson drained his cup and set it down. "So," he said, immediately back to business, "we have the problem of rendering nominal innocents, ah, combat ineffective without actually harming them, and we have the coordinated problem of rendering them safe from unknown others at an unknown distance who just might be able to blow them up. More, we have to work out how to do this without divulging the means or involving any of the Joint Chiefs, because at least one of them is on board with a free-to-fire agenda that he'd get court-martialed for...if we knew who he is."
"Well," Sumner drawled, "we know who he isn't. He isn't Navy or Coast Guard. And I don't expect it will be Air Force or Marines, though I could be wrong."
"Steve," Iverson said, "do we dare take any chances at all with this?"
Sumner hesitated perhaps half a second before shaking his head definitively.
"Along with that," Iverson said, "I don't think you want any courts-martial, do you?"
This time there was no hesitation. "They're the best men in uniform, Todd. All five of them. Besides, what general officer hasn't disagreed violently with the commander-in-chief? What general officer hasn't felt that his men's lives were being put unnecessarily at risk because of political pusillanimity? If we can head off the mutiny...or at least, defeat it before it becomes too obvious, I'm inclined to forgive and forget."
"Then we must assume," Iverson said, "that anyone outside this office at this moment could be part of the problem. Which puts my efforts into the blackest of black zones." He ran his hands through his hair and scowled. "I don't have the facilities for this. I'm going to have to build a whole new lab."
New intensity flowed into Sumner's face. He leaned forward on his settee, hands clasped before him as if in entreaty. "Do you have an approach in mind already?"
Iverson nodded vigorously. "Oh, yeah. I've been turning it over ever since you outlined the problem. It's mostly a matter of --"
"Stop!" Sumner's raised hand and parade-ground blare halted Iverson in mid-flight. "Geoff is trustworthy. I'd stake my life on it. And you have to trust me. But do you trust everyone who might someday get access to the tapes that are being made as we speak?"
Iverson blanched. "You mean to keep this secret in perpetuity?"
"I might have to, Todd." Sumner turned away, discomfort in his face. "The money has to come from somewhere. The president is the commander-in-chief, but the armed forces of the United States are commisioned and funded by Congress. I can't -- I mean, I mustn't risk compromising the Constitutional division of powers over this. That's more important than anything else."
Iverson didn't answer. He settled his hands on his knees and stared at the carpet for a long moment.
"If there were no money at issue," he said softly, "would that put the Constitutional questions to bed?"
Nolan repressed a gasp. Sumner's mouth fell open. "It would."
Iverson nodded, eyes still on the floor. "Then there's no money at issue."
"But --"
"Steve."
Sumner fell silent.
"Let me do this for you. I mean, for the country. It won't bankrupt me." Iverson grinned. "Probably not, anyway."
"If it does?" Sumner murmured.
"We'll talk about it then."
Sumner rose and went to the window that overlooked the broad sweep of the White House lawn. He stood there, hands clasped behinds him, staring out at the pristine grass for a full minute.
"All right," he said. "You don't have to be a man at arms or an elected official to serve the country." He turned, eyes brilliant with moisture. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you how much I appreciate it."
Iverson shook his head. "There is something I'd like to know, though."
Sumner waved a hand. "Ask."
"Why me?"
Sumner cocked an eyebrow. "Didn't you think I'd hear about that business last spring with the rape gang and the Onteora police?
"Oh. Well, yeah, I guess you would have. But that wasn't nearly as tough a problem as this is going to be."
"That doesn't matter," Sumner said. He seemed magically to acquire a new and greater stature. "You brought six serious criminals to well-deserved justice, against the will of the police hierarchy and without committing a crime yourself. I know," Sumner said, "you didn't do it alone. But you rose to the occasion with a brilliant innovation, in virtually no time, under constraints any other man would have called too strict to accept. I couldn't help but think you might be able to do it a second time. And," he said, grinning, "you're an Onteora boy. How much more could I want? Now I have some questions."
Iverson's eyebrows rose. "Anything at all, Steve."
"Any problem with having Geoff as my on-site liaison?" Nolan sat forward in surprise. Sumner smiled crookedly. "I'd rather not add anyone else to this little conspiracy, unless it becomes unavoidable."
Iverson grinned. "None at all. Anything else?"
The president of the United States waved at Todd Iverson's feet with a puzzled frown. "Why the high heels?"
Iverson's grin turned naughty. "Ask me again when this is over. I promise it'll be worth the wait."
Sumner nodded. "All right. And now, Geoff," he said, turning to Nolan, "would you allow me a few minutes alone with our guest, please?"
Senior Agent Ryan McFarlane, commander of the Presidential Detail, was not pleased.
"The president swore you to secrecy from me?"
"He did, sir."
McFarlane's color was becoming ruddier by the second. Veins in his neck were pulsing visibly.
"So if this...guest you brought him turns out to be a threat to his person, we'll have no warning at all."
Nolan inclined his head. "I said as much to the president, sir. He told me not to worry."
"Damn it all, Nolan, it's our job to worry!" McFarlane shoved his chair backward with force enough to send it clanging into the cinder-block wall. "I admire his dedication and his sense of mission, but he ought to know better after three years in office!"
Nolan didn't reply. McFarlane strode furiously back and forth several times, then settled before Nolan once again with his arms akimbo and fury radiating from his eyes.
"Agent, if President Sumner told you not to give me his guest's name, is there anything else you can tell me about him that wouldn't violate your promise? Something that would allow me to deduce his identity, but that couldn't be held against you later?"
Nolan's eyes widened. Without thinking, he rose from his chair and planted his fists on the table between them.
"Agent McFarlane, are you asking me to weasel my way around the president's plain intention to keep his guest's identity a secret from you?"
"Sit down, Nolan," McFarlane grated from between clenched teeth. The words carried a distinct note of undesirable consequences.
Geoff Nolan felt his temper rise. "I will not sit down, McFarlane. You're my commander, not my soul. Your commander has explicitly ordered me not to divulge his guest's name, with a clear implication that he wants the man's identity kept from anyone who might take an interest. That trumps anything you might have to say about it. So get off your high horse and get back to acting like what you and I both are: the president's employees!"
The two big men glared at one another for a long, million-volt moment.
That was probably career suicide, but I had no choice.
McFarlane was first to relent. He sighed explosively, shook his head, and kicked his chair into the wall a second time.
"Get out."
Nolan left.
Nadia Nolan was as complaisant and accommodating a wife as Geoff could ever have wanted. She'd endured the secrecies, separations, and other difficulties that went with her Secret Service husband for five years without complaining even once. Yet even she was disturbed by what he had to tell her.
"You have no idea?"
Geoff shook his head. "Not the slightest."
"And I can't come with you?"
"Oh, you could come. If you're willing to live in a hotel for as long as it takes. But I couldn't guarantee that I'd be available much. And I still wouldn't be able to talk about it."
Nadia nodded. After a moment she disengaged herself from his arms and slid out of bed. He rose onto an elbow. She stood nude before him, a Slavic Madonna of ineffable sadness and immense appeal.
"I'll be back in a minute," she said, and left the bedroom. Geoff lowered himself onto his back again, hands clasped beneath his head, and closed his eyes.
Lord, I need Your guidance. I know she's unhappy. I always thought it was just about her barrenness. I have no idea what to do about it, other than love her as best I can. Lend me Your arm.
Presently she returned, slipped under the covers and back into his arms. He pulled her close, and she nuzzled her face against his chest.
"Geoff, there's something I want."
A momentary current of tension sang through him. "Name it, love. Anything that's within my powers."
"A home of our own."
He grimaced. "Nad, we can't afford --"
"Not here."
"What? I work here!"
"I don't." She pulled a little back and looked into his eyes. "And you're away so much it shouldn't matter a lot if our house isn't here. The president would give you a commuting allowance, wouldn't he?"
Geoff fought to evict the knot that had formed in his chest.
She wouldn't have asked if it weren't important to her.
"I could ask," he said. "It's not guaranteed, but there are precedents. Sweetie, do you really want a house that badly? When you'd be alone there about ninety-five percent of the time? When I won't be around to look after it?"
Her eyes were locked onto his own. She nodded.
He sighed. "All right. We'll have to start thinking about a target area. Our finances won't --"
She shook her head. "Onteora."
"What? In God's name, why? The area is depressed, the weather is rotten, it's hundreds of miles from a major city, there's nothing resembling a culture --"
"Because," she said, voice steady, "it's inexpensive, and there's lots of space, and you'll be there for awhile, Besides," she said with a delicate grin, "the president comes from there. Don't you ever think about after the Secret Service?"
His chest grew tight again.
I should. McFarlane will outlast Sumner. Sumner might not even run for re-election. What could I possibly expect after he goes back to private life?
"You're sure about this, Nad?"
She nodded.
"All right." He breathed deeply. "Maybe our host will help."
"Oh, he will," she said.
His brow furrowed, "What makes you so sure?"
Her grin turned mysterious. "Call it woman's intuition."
Nolan squinted at the long, low structure. "That's the new lab?"
Iverson nodded, obviously pleased. "Turned out it cost a lot less than I feared."
"Uh, well, okay." The building was a single story, over four hundred fifty feet wide and only thirty feet deep. It had a single door and not one window. The roof bore a single microwave antenna, aimed to the southwest. Nolan pointed at it. "Networking?"
"Nope. Television."
"Huh? Why?"
"Covering all the possibilities." Iverson's half-smile suggested that Nolan would get the joke eventually. "You think you'll have any trouble securing the place?"
Nolan snorted. "Against what, a ballistic missile? With one door and no windows, it's a point-defense problem. I could do this in my sleep."
"Good. Tomorrow you'll meet your coworkers." Nolan started to ask who Iverson was talking about, but the inventor raised a hand. "Never fear. You'll approve. I promise."
"But President Sumner said --"
"I know what he said. " Iverson kicked a cinder along the curb, turned and strode back to his car. Nolan hurried to follow. "I also know what I said. I'm not letting him spend a nickel on this project."
"Todd?" Despite Iverson's insistence, Nolan stil found it difficult to address the inventor by his first name. "Secret Service salaries come already funded by Congress. They're part of the Treasury budget. There wouldn't be any questions."
"Doesn't matter." A hard line had formed along Iverson's jaw. "I don't want any other government involvement. Secrecy will be hard enough to maintain. And some of your colleagues would love a shot at your back, you know."
Nolan said nothing.
"Did I say something I shouldn't have?"
"No, not at all." I just didn't expect you to know that. "When do you expect to set to work?"
"I already have." Iverson yanked open the door of his Chrysler and gestured Nolan into the shotgun seat. "First indications have been promising. With luck we'll wrap up within two weeks."
Nolan's eyes widened. "You're that confident?"
Iverson gunned the engine and pulled smoothly away from the curb. "I begrudge even that much delay, but it can't be helped. Geoff," he said, his voice suddenly muted, "you're going to hear some strange things. You might see a few as well. Promise me you'll...maintain your cool."
Nolan chuckled. "Not to worry, Todd. After you've guarded Stephen Sumner, there isn't much that can rattle your cage."
Iverson glanced sideways at him. "I haven't heard about any attempts on his life. Are you guys that good at keeping secrets?"
"Attempts on his life? No. But do you remember what you saw in the Oval Office? The fencing foil mounted over the mantel, just beneath the Stuart portrait of Washington?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"The president likes to fence. He's very good. But when it comes to 'maintaining your cool,' as you put it, he allows himself a bit more leeway than the Detail does. He once took that foil down and backed the Russian ambassador up against the wall with it." Nolan winced at the memory. "It's not blunted."
Iverson's mouth dropped open, He guided the car into the Arcologics parking lot, brought it to a halt and turned to face Nolan squarely. "Are you telling me that along with having to protect the president from his visitors, you've had to protect visitors from the president?"
Nolan nodded.
"Bloody hell."
"My sentiments exactly, Todd. It makes the job interesting, though."
"I shouldn't wonder."
Nolan returned to his hotel room to find unexpected company.
Nadia had arrived in his absence. She was sitting on his bed with another woman, a petite blonde beauty in a gold silk halter and black satin shorts. The two women were hunched toward one another, talking animatedly, hands constantly in motion in the air between them. Nolan hadn't seen that much vitality in his wife's face since the first year of their marriage, when they were all but new to one another.
The unknown woman noticed Nolan's arrival before his wife did. Her eyes flicked back and forth between Nolan and Nadia several times before Nadia noticed and turned toward him. She grabbed the unknown woman's hand and scooted off the bed at once, pulling her companion with her.
"Why didn't you call and tell me you were coming?" Nolan said. Automatically, he pulled his suit jacket around him and buttoned it, hoping his sidearm wouldn't show.
Nadia's face dimpled with a mischievous grin. "Geoff," she said, chafing the blonde's hand, "this is Jeanne Iverson." The blonde smiled and essayed a micro-curtsey.
Nolan's eyebrows rose. "Todd's wife?"
"Accept no substitutes," Jeanne said. She stepped forward and extended a hand, and Nolan clasped it. "Are you aware that you're married to an absolutely fabulous woman?"
"Well, uh, yes," Nolan said. "I did know that." I might not tell her as often as I should, though. "But tell me, please: how do you know it?"
Nadia snorted and planted her arms akimbo in mock outrage. Jeanne chuckled. "I knew that much five minutes after I met her." She circled Nadia's waist with an arm and pulled her close. "I'd like to take her house shopping, if that would be okay with you. I know you're going to be very busy."
It was going much too fast. Nolan had heard rumors about the formidable Mrs. Todd Iverson, but he hadn't been prepared for this sort of lightning assault.
"Nad," he said in his lowest register, "are you really, truly interested in settling up here?"
She nodded, eyes wide and face intent. "It's exactly what I want. It's open, green, quiet." The accent she usually suppressed so carefully sang beneath each word. "It reminds me of...of home."
Home. Among the birches and pines outside Arkhangelsk, where the sun seldom shines and even the summers are brutally cold. Where her drunken sot of a father alternated between months away at sea and beating her and her mother to a pulp. The home she escaped by selling herself to a faceless American for a promise of immediate marriage and ten thousand dollars' flight money for her mother. Nadia Belinskaya, how little I know you still!
"Mrs. Iverson --"
"Please, call me Jeanne." She smiled. "I'm no more formal than Todd."
"Well, thank you. And thank you for the offer. Are you certain you can spare the time?"
"No problem. It will be my pleasure." Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "In fact, I've been looking forward to it. Todd already owned our home when I married him, so this will be the first time I've ever gone house shopping."
Nolan ran a hand through his hair. "I guess I can't deny you the pleasure, then. But Nadia and I have to talk finances first."
All at once Jeanne Iverson frowned. Her perfect forehead sprouted a web of furrows. "Certainly not! That would take all the fun out of it. Oh, don't worry." She glanced at Nadia and squeezed her gently. "I won't let her make an offer on Forslund Manor. But I'd like to show her around as broadly as possible." The smile returned. "We might do some other shopping along the way."
Nadia said not a word, eyes to the floor. Jeanne Iverson had clearly put her under a spell.
Oh, God. Two gorgeous women going shopping unsupervised. With my checkbook. One of them the wife of a millionaire. Maybe I should shoot them both now. Or myself.
He stepped toward his wife. Jeanne released her as he took her shoulders between his hands.
"Nad," he said, "don't...I mean, you wouldn't...we're doing okay, but we're not exactly rich, so just don't...please?"
She looked up at him with a shy smile. "Thank you, sweetie. I won't."
"Okay." He released her with a monitory look at Jeanne. The blonde grinned wickedly, slipped into a pair of bejeweled stiletto-heeled sandals that probably cost more than he made in a month, and scampered for the door, dragging Nadia behind her.
The silence from the other end of the line was faintly ominous.
"Are you entirely at ease with this, Geoff?"
"Do we really have a choice, Mr. President?"
Another silence. "I suppose not. But it does make me wonder about his ultimate intentions. You haven't any doubts about his loyalty or his character, have you?"
Despite the subject, Nolan had to laugh. "Mr. President, the man has committed to spending up to ten million dollars of his own money because you asked him for assistance. He volunteered to take the entire burden onto his shoulders." And his wife has mine out looking at houses this very minute. "Didn't you say you'd had a glittering recommendation of him from an absolutely trusted source?"
"Yes, I did. A man named Kevin Conway, who's worked with Iverson and once worked for me at Onteora Aviation. A man I'd trust with my life, just as I trust you. But do I dare undertake a project of this importance to the country on that recommendation and single-point oversight?"
"Mr. President --"
Sumner sighed, "I know, I know. No choice. Just keep your eyes open, Geoff. Keep them as wide and as vigilant as if you were protecting me. Alone. In Islamabad."
"I will, Mr. President. I swear it."
"I know you will. Please excuse me, I'm supposed to meet with a gaggle of senators about the state of Pakistani reconstruction, and they're probably deep into alcohol withdrawal by now. Keep me posted."
"I will, sir." The connection ended at once.
Nolan closed his cryptophone and slipped it back into the special shielded carrier that prevented it from being traced or tracked. He blinked hard against the midafternon sun, ran his hands through his hair, and stood up to stretch.
The president has good instincts. And they're in sync with mine. So why did I feel compelled to reassure him? There's never really "no choice." He could can the project if he feels it's too shaky, militarily or politically. The boys on the ground can always deal with those walking bombs by shooting them.
Shooting the lot of them. Including the ones who aren't wearing Semtex belts. Women and kids.
Nolan knew at once that he could never, ever countenance such a solution. It would leave him unable to face the children he hoped to adopt and raise, to say nothing of Nadia. And if he could not, then surely Stephen Sumner, who held the fates of two nations in his hands, could not.
I guess there's no choice after all.
Nolan's coworkers proved to be a couple of the hardest men he'd ever met. One, a tall, well muscled black man, gave his name as Ken Torrance. The other, a white man of medium height and whipcord build whose face spoke of violence done in quantity and without regret, was named Chris Chase. Both carried short-barreled revolvers in hip holsters and wore khaki green coveralls with Integral Security embroidered over the left breast. They shook Geoff's hand, invited him to call them by their first names, asked if there was any coffee, and settled at once into silent, unlimited readiness beneath a veneer of studied boredom.
Nolan would have been satisfied to guard the sole entrance to the building alone. He was confident that it would take a platoon-strength assault to force its way past him and into the recesses of the lab. If that many persons were to learn of the lab's existence, such an attack would be unnecessary; the publicity alone would doom the effort to failure. But Iverson insisted that there be guards to patrol the grounds, even if their patrolling might alert passers-by to activity of importance within the building.
Nothing of interest occurred on the first day, or the second, or the third. Iverson secreted himself deep within the structure just after dawn each day and emerged in the early evening each night. He smiled coming and going, and never failed to ask his protectors if there were anything they might want. He was especially solicitous of Geoff, the sole member of the trio who had any inkling of the significance of the efforts within, but never alluded to that fact or the specifics of his labors. Torrance and Chase asked nothing and volunteered nothing.
On the fourth day, Iverson came forth at about noon and asked Chase to join him within. The patrolman followed him without a word. Shortly thereafter a series of agonized shrieks issued from the other side of the building. Chase emerged about an hour later, wide-eyed and shaken. Iverson beckoned to Torrance to follow him within. The black patrolman looked uncertainly at Chase, then turned and complied. An hour later he came out looking even worse than his partner. Neither of them would speak of what had happened.
And every evening, Nolan returned to his hotel room to find Iverson's dangerously beautiful wife deep in murmured conversation with Nadia, over matters Nadia refused to disclose.
At midafternoon on the fifth day, Iverson emerged from the lab in garb that looked like something from a science fiction movie. It was spacesuit-like, but much closer fitting and with no obvious breathing apparatus. It glittered as if it had been sprayed with metal flakes. He stopped in the vestibule, removed his helmet and gloves, and greeted Nolan with a tired smile.
"We're done. I mean, I'm done."
That fast? "Are you really ready to report to the president, sir? I mean, Todd?"
Iverson nodded. He looked somehow different, not quite right.
"Should I call him?" Nolan reached for his cryptophone.
"No, wait." Iverson held up a hand. "Geoff, I know you're supposed to remain apart from the politics of the presidency, but I need an opinion, and you're the person best qualified to give it. May I ask a delicate question?"
Nolan nodded, his nerves humming.
"What's the president's position on...racism?"
"His personal position? He's never --"
Iverson shook his head. "No, not that. What positions has the Sumner Administration taken on issues that involve charges of racism, racial discrimination, preferential treatment of the races, and so forth?"
Nolan thought hard. "President Sumner hasn't made any statements on such things that I can recall. On every issue I've heard him discuss, he's gone straight to the Constitution and taken off from there."
Iverson nodded. "He's a good man." He waddled to a folding chair, planted himself on it heavily, and set his helmet on the floor beside him. "And he knew enough about me to know that..."
"What, sir, uh, Todd?"
"Never mind." The inventor passed a hand across his eyes. "The solution might cause him some political difficulties here at home. The racialist mouthpiece groups have been restive lately." He grinned. "They get that way when Washington stops pandering to them."
And Sumner has been the reason. He won't sign an appropriations bill that includes anything not expressly authorized by Article One.
Silence stretched between them. Nolan turned to peek out at the street beyond. It was quiet. Torrance and Chase passed the doorway, glanced in and noticed Nolan's attention, and waved at him. They kept on, circling the building in their usual, casual-looking saunter, as if their duty were a mere walk in the sun.
"Maybe we should go see him," Iverson said. "Mind leaving your missus in the care of mine for a night?"
Well, she hasn't spent me broke yet. "All right."
Iverson reached down his chest, popped three grippers and undid two zippers. A moment later he stood before Nolan in his underwear, flat-footed for the first time since they'd met. He was short, no more than five-eight at most.
"Give me five minutes to get dressed and call Jeanne, and we'll be on our way." He slung the protective suit over one shoulder and groped for the helmet. "Think the Washington ATCs will let me through to the White House a second time?"
Stephen Sumner was incredulous. "Already?"
Iverson nodded. "But there's a catch."
That seemed to relax the president somewhat. "I should have known. What percent of the Gross Domestic Product will it cost?"
Nolan stood by the door to the Oval Office's public entranceway, one hand resting lightly on the latch. He'd pulled it out of its recess and twisted it to the position, known only to the president and his Secret Service guardians, in which the door could not be opened with or without a key. No one was to interrupt this conversation for anything short of a nuclear attack.
"Oh, it will be cheap enough, by military standards," Iverson said. "A mission would require a couple of UCAVs and some special electronics. But there could be a cost in political terms. If anyone were to find out how I did it."
Sumner's face was impassive. "Geoff mentioned racial implications."
Iverson nodded. "Not as most people understand race, but yes."
"Do I want to know the details?"
"I don't think so, Steve."
Sumner shook his head. "Sorry, that wasn't addressed to you. I didn't mean to say it out loud."
The president rose and wandered toward Gilbert Stuart's portrait of George Washington. He stared up at the old masterpiece for a long moment.
"He called out the Army to crush the Whiskey Rebellion. Killed a lot of Americans for defying Congress's power to lay an excise on their corn whiskey. Mostly back-country Pennsylvanians and territorials. A lot of them were veterans of the Army of the Potomac. The cries went up at once about a new Tyrant George, even more willing to oppress his countrymen than the one he'd freed them from. But he stood by his decision. Right or wrong, he stood by his Constitutional duty."
Iverson said nothing.
"I have the same duty, Todd. I have to defend the country. As the commander-in-chief of its armed forces, if I were to retreat from a tactic that would win this campaign and save uncounted American lives, I'd be derelict in my duty. Treasonably so."
"You don't think we could keep it between us, then?" Iverson said.
"It wouldn't matter if we could," Sumner said. He turned a mask of resignation toward the inventor. "I would know. That would be enough."
Sumner strode to his desk, lifted the handset of his phone and punched a speed-dial button.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"Get General Maclaurin in here at once."
Iverson rose. Nolan returned the door latch to the open position.
Twelve days later they went to the theater of operations for the first deployment, a town north of Karachi that had lain in insurgent hands for months and had successfully resisted every attempt on its defenses. Sumner tried his best to dissuade Iverson, but the inventor wouldn't have it any other way. Sumner ordered Nolan to accompany him at all times, armed to the teeth and ready to kill without scruple.
The brigade commander ordered to accommodate them was anything but welcoming. Iverson showed less interest in his opinions than was politic. He startled Nolan by addressing the squad and platoon leaders of the point-assault forces with extraordinary deference and charm. Ten minutes after meeting him, every one of them would have eaten out of his hand.
It took less than five minutes to instruct the assembled infantrymen in how to operate the black boxes he'd distributed among them. It took longer to deflect their questions about what the boxes would do and why they should carry the additional burden .
"What you need to remember," Iverson said, his voice soft yet audible all the way to the rear of the huge assembly tent, "is that your lives matter most of all. You're going to see some terrible things. You're going to want to run to the aid of screaming women and children. You have to resist the impulse. They'll be screaming because they helped to assemble bombs meant to take your lives. You have to run past them and not look back, even if they seem to be dying right before your eyes. And make no mistake, gentlemen," he said in a voice barely above a whisper, "some of them will do exactly that. But you won't."
A corporal in the rear of the tent raised his hand.
"Yes?"
"Sir," the corporal said, "we ain't exactly shrinking violets out here. We've all been in the shit, and some of us have scars to prove it. We volunteered for point in this assault, and we'll do like you said." He hefted the black box slung over his shoulder. "But we're trusting our asses to this gizmo of yours. Can't you give us a little more poop about how it works?"
The tent was still.
"Soldier," Iverson said, "I've got a couple of scars of my own. No, I've never been in the Army. I got them a bit less formally. But I know where you're coming from. In your position, I'd be dubious too. But I want you to do something for me, right now. Look around this tent. Look at your fellow soldiers. Tell me if there's anything about them that looks just a wee bit different from the other outfits you've marched with."
The corporal scanned the tent, his expression slowly becoming a study in confusion. "Yeah, we're all --"
"Stop!" Iverson's blare of command was a good imitation of Sumner's. "I know what you noticed. Your buddies know it too. But the enemy doesn't know it, and we have to keep him from learning about it if you want this 'gizmo' to save your asses. Scars and all."
Understanding swelled in the corporal's face. He nodded and sat.
"Any other questions?" the brigade commander boomed. No one spoke. "Then let's muster up and put this thing to the test."
The battle array was subtle and well concealed. The point force moved toward the town stealthily, along a two hundred yard perimeter. But the insurgents were watchful. The frontmost American troops were more than five hundred yards from the first fortifications when the vanguard of women and children emerged from the surrounding buildings, dressed a ragged line, and walked fearfully toward the visible elements of the assault force.
Overhead, one orbiting UCAV emitted a high-pitched whine. Another gave forth a basso rumble like the snore of a congested god.
When the Americans had closed to within a hundred fifty yards of the women and children, they activated their black boxes. In that instant the world was forever changed.
Half a dozen women scattered among the vanguard shrieked in agony and fell prostrate in the dust. They tore at their flesh as if it were ablaze, but no such effect was visible. The children and other women halted, paralyzed by confusion and ultimate fear.
The American troops sprinted into their midst and bundled them away from the planned line of assault. When the path was clear, two ultra-heavy anti-fortifications tanks raced forward and crashed into the town's defenses, setting off a thunder of explosions and gouts of fire that could be heard for twenty miles around. Immediately behind then came a column of Bradleys, turret guns firing steadily at the enfilading insurgents and spreading to blanket the area within.
Twenty minutes later the town was in American hands. Several of the women in the buffer, including two who'd been incapacitated by Iverson's invention, were found strapped into suicide-bomb vests. None exploded.
The mop-up forces that probed for hidden pockets of resistance turned up a fascinating tableau: a group of jihadists all of whom had died in one room, with no apparent explanation. The brigade commander called Iverson and Nolan in to examine the scene.
Iverson squatted over one of the corpses and turned it over. The jihadist's face was contorted in agony, but he bore no visible wounds. He examined a second and a third, rose and clapped the dust from his hands.
"It worked, Geoff." Iverson was reaching forward for a handshake when Nolan caught a flicker of movement to his right. He dove forward, knocking the inventor to the dirt floor, rolled and whipped out his sidearm. Two pulls of the trigger, and a final insurgent fell on his carbine, as dead as his comrades.
Four troopers and the brigade commander dropped to prone firing positions as the reports faded. Iverson rose and inspected the body as if nothing untoward had occurred. The terrorist was far fairer of complexion than his fellows. Nolan was trembling violently.
"Thank you. First time?"
Nolan nodded.
"I know the feeling."
"You've killed?"
"I have." The inventor spread his arms and beckoned Nolan into them. He clasped his Secret Service protector like a beloved friend and held him until his shaking had ceased.
"The critical element of the solution," Iverson said between sips of White House coffee, "was genetics. Populations that don't outbreed develop gene clusters that identify them as reliably as a fingerprint identifies an individual man. The Middle Eastern peoples are among the most easily separated from others on that basis. Give me a tissue sample from the Middle East and I'll tell you the exact nationality of the donor ten times out of ten. Combine that with the electron-spin resonances of the perchlorate and pernitrate radicals present in all high explosives, and I could develop a set of microwave interference patterns that would kill or cripple any person of Pakistani ancestry whose skin bears a trace of explosive residue."
Sumner's face twitched. "That's the racial angle?"
Iverson nodded. "Unfortunately, the resonances I used would also have done harm to anyone darker-skinned than you, I, or Geoff. Not lethal harm, but harm to be avoided all the same. So I had to seine out all the black soldiers from the point force, and I couldn't let anyone know why I did it."
"Will your approach be applicable in other places, among other peoples?" Sumner said.
"Not exactly as we used it in Pakistan," Iverson said. "The transmitter frequencies on the UCAVs would have to change, the portable units would need re-engineering, and the, uh, troop selection might differ. But in outline, yes, it could be used anywhere there was a similar threat."
"And you would be available to help with the adjustments?"
Iverson didn't answer at once. He leaned forward over his coffee cup and stared into it as if he were displeased with the contents.
"It would depend."
Sumner's eyes narrowed. "On what?"
Iverson met the president's gaze without flinching. "On the campaign, the issues at stake, the nature of the enemy, the state of the nation, and my estimate of the character of the person in the White House."
Nolan had anticipated the exchange, but the sight of anyone actually denying Stephen Sumner set his nerves to jangling even so. He'd seen the president bring arrogant, demanding, and conceited men to heel before. If he deemed the national interest to be at stake, Sumner would not hesitate to use whatever measures were necessary to get his way.
But Sumner didn't respond as Nolan expected. He laid his palms against his knees and nodded very slowly.
"I expected something like that. It doesn't really matter whether I approve, does it? You own all the technologies involved. I'd have to get a condemnation judgment to wrest them away from you, and that would involve letting this whole affair become public. Not to mention that I have no idea what they are. And no one else does either, right?"
Iverson nodded. "Exactly."
"Did you have any of this in mind when we first spoke?"
"Some of it." Iverson rose, stuck his hands into his pockets, and wandered to stand before the Washington portrait. "Not all of it. The laws of nature aren't always politically correct. I didn't want your administration marred by something that no one can help. Especially since it's the first administration since Cleveland's that's refused to pander to anyone."
The inventor pointed up at the Stuart masterpiece. "He saw his duty clearly when the Whiskey Rebellion hit. He called up the Army and sent it to enforce the law. And the Constitution says that's what he should have done. 'He shall take care that the laws be faithfully enforced.' But it wasn't the right thing to do. The whiskey excise fell upon the poorest citizens of the new republic, the ones least able to resist it. The Army was far more than they could cope with. But they stuck to their guns, a lot of them at the price of their lives."
Iverson's eyes glowed with a special fervor. It was a light Nolan had come to associate with dangerous men. Fanatics. Yet he knew the inventor too well to think him one of either.
"I'm a private citizen. I'm on the rebels' side. When the people rise up as the Whiskey Rebels did, the government should draw the moral. Men willing to risk their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor are of more value to a nation than any law, regulation, or tax. Whatever aroused their fury is wrong. It may be Constitutionally acceptable, but it's still wrong. And it should be undone before blood is spilled on its account. Do you remember your second question from when we first met? The one I told you to hold until all this was behind us?" He turned profile toward the president.
Sumner nodded. "Why you wear high-heeled boots."
Iverson grinned. "Yup. Without them I'm five feet seven and a half inches tall. I weigh a hundred fifty-five pounds. As a teenager and young adult, that made me a target for bullies and dictators. I had to learn to fight. I had to learn to strike the first blow and make it so devastating that there needn't be a second, then or ever. But that has its costs.
"Over time, I noticed that the main trigger for that sort of dominance contest is a a deficit in height. So I gave myself more height the only way possible. I dress to hide it, most of the time. But there are times when I want it to show, so whoever I'm with will know I'm not predictable, not someone he can manipulate. One way or the other, it's cut way back on the number of power games I've had to play. But when the chips are down, there's no substitute for actual power. I've learned that the hard way.
"So I believe in keeping as much power in the hands of private persons as possible. I want the government -- all governments, not just the one in Washington -- to fear the public's displeasure. I want the public to know that it possesses the means of resistance, and the government to know that if we should decide to rise up, it will not be able to put us down again."
Iverson returned to his sofa and sat hunched over, peering at the president in expectation of a response. It was slow in coming.
"I think..." Sumner paused and stared at his folded hands. "I think I agree with you. I'm not entirely pleased, mind you. No politician would be. We all think we're ultimately trustworthy. And I'm politician enough to want every tool of office I can get my hands on." He grinned. "I suppose I'll have to earn your trust, won't I?"
Iverson's answering smile was sunny and warm. "Mr. President," he said, causing Sumner to raise an inquiring eyebrow, "you already have. Take my word for it. But I'm not going to trust your successor...or his. Arcologics will control this technology, and will see to it that it's used only in wholesome causes. As for your administration's needs...well, ask and ye shall receive."
Nolan nursed his misgivings on the flight back to Onteora. Few men had impressed him as strongly as Todd Iverson. His polymathic intellectual powers were matched by a swift and accurate apprehension of moral issues. His social graces and ability to persuade were enough to raise him to the Oval Office, should he ever desire it. He commanded instant, irresistible loyalty in everyone around him. His wife was too beautiful and too charming to be allowed to run loose.
He was easily the most dangerous man in America. Perhaps in the world. He had to be watched.
"Will you and Nadia have dinner with Jeanne and me tonight, Geoff?"
"Hm? Oh, thank you, Todd, but I've been away from my post far too long already. I have to collect Nadia and get back to work before my supervisor decides to strike my name from the payroll."
"Nonsense." Iverson grinned, never taking his eyes off the flight path. The trees of Onteora County had come into view. "President Sumner directed me to have you over tonight. Doesn't the president always get what he wants?"
Nolan grinned ruefully. "I used to think so. All right, then yes, thank you. We'd be honored."
It was sumptuous. The Iversons' dining room was luxuriously paneled and furnished in dark woods and silver appurtenances. Jeanne Iverson proved to be a superb cook; her veal piccata was exquisitely flavorful and tender. She dimpled when Nolan praised it and insisted that the credit belonged with her butcher. When she stepped out for coffee and dessert, Iverson leaned over and whispered, "Wait until you try her cherry cheesecake."
The cheesecake surpassed all expectations. The coffee was from the White House mess. The combination would have drained the aggression from Genghis Khan. At the end, the Nolans could hardly move.
"So," Jeanne said as they sat back, "has Nadia told you anything about our shopping trips?"
Nolan frowned. "Not a word. I'd been expecting to hear about all these houses you two have been visiting. You've had nearly three weeks with her and I've heard nothing at all."
Nadia was staring into her coffee cup, a mysterious smile forming on her lips.
"Well," Jeanne said, "that's because we haven't been shopping for houses."
Uh-oh. "Nad," he said, trying to make it as pleasant as possible, "do you have a surprise for me?"
Nolan had never seen his wife look quite that naughty. "Later, sweetie." Her Russian accent was on full display. "Don't worry. I think you'll like it."
"Speaking of later," Iverson interjected, "you'll be staying with us tonight. I've already arranged for your baggage to be fetched here from the hotel, and tomorrow I'll fly you back to Washington myself."
"But Todd --"
Iverson raised a hand. "No buts! It will be my pleasure. And, I hope, yours as well. Ladies," he said as he rose, "would you allow Geoff and me a few minutes of private conversation?"
Nadia Nolan and Jeanne Iverson giggled in unison. "Of course, gentlemen." Jeanne rose, took Nadia by the hand, and led her into the kitchen. More giggles sounded irregularly from their wake.
"Geoff," Iverson said when they were alone, "you've served ably and well. The president considers you the best man on the Detail. He's thought so since that business with the PFLP two years ago. What do you have to say to that?"
"Well, I'm flattered, of course. But --"
"Good," Iverson said, "because he has an assignment for you. It's not mandatory; he'll allow you to decline it without prejudice. But he'd really like you to take it, if you can see your way clear to it. Trouble is, it means leaving the Detail. You'd still be Secret Service, but no longer a guardian of the president's person. Shall I lay it out for you?"
Nolan's nerves had begun to hum again. "Certainly, Todd. Go right ahead." Especially if I can refuse it.
Iverson smiled. "Presidential liaison for advanced technologies. Assigned semi-permanently to Onteora County, New York. You'd be working with me, keeping track of what Arcologics develops and projecting out its social, political, and military implications. There'd be a substantial increase in salary, and several trips each year back to Washington to brief the president on your findings." Iverson paused. "If it matters to you, you'd still be eligible for the eventual command of the Detail. You wouldn't suffer any career impact at all, if you elect to stay in federal service after Stephen Sumner leaves the White House."
"You make it sound," Nolan said slowly, "as if there might be some more attractive alternative available."
"That depends," Iverson said. "Stephen Sumner is from Onteora. And of course, so am I. He plans to return here once his time in office is done, and he'll need protection then just as much as he does now. Who better to command his personal security than the man who's guarded his life for three years and acted as his right hand with the most important technologist of the day?"
Nolan grinned. "Not too high an opinion of yourself, Dr. Iverson?"
"Mister Iverson, please! I have only a bachelor's degree. Would you care to argue about any of the rest of it?"
Nolan sat silent. Iverson peered at him for a long, uncomfortable moment before pushing a photograph across the table. Nolan glanced at it. It depicted a large, gorgeous stone house on a heavily treed lot. The property was girdled by tall oaks and low stone walls. "What's this?"
"Your new home."
"What? But --"
"Please, Geoff! 'Do not bind the mouths of the kine that tread the grain,' and all that. It's part enticement and part compensation for services rendered. But it's yours either way. Your name is already on the deed. Yours and Nadia's."
Nolan gaped. Iverson smiled and rose.
"I know it's a lot to take in at one pass. Go upstairs and talk it out with your wife. Second door on the right."
Nolan rose shakily, shook Iverson's hand, and mounted the stairs. He went to the second bedroom to the right of the stairhead, laid his hand tentatively on the knob, and twisted. As the door swung back, his breath deserted his body.
Nadia stood within.
She was garbed in a diaphanous creation that seemed to be tailored smoke. It clung to her and flowed around her as if it knew how she was about to move and had resolved to follow her wherever she went. Her full-bosomed, broad-hipped figure swayed from side to side as she closed on him and twined her arms around his neck.
"They live very well, don't they?" she breathed into his ear.
"Uh, yeah," he husked. His body's mounting excitement was rapidly depriving him of the requirements for speech and thought. "Is this what you and Jeanne were shopping for?"
He felt her mouth curve against his cheek. "Partly. There's someone I'd like you to meet." She drew away from him and beckoned him toward a door set at the back of the room.
Is she kinky? I'd never have imagined --
As Nadia opened the door, a soft coo emanated from within. She led him forward and around the plushly dressed bed with a crooked finger.
The room beyond contained a bassinet and a baby.
Nolan stood paralyzed as his wife took the baby from the bassinet and cradled it in her arms.
"Her name is Svetlana," she said. "She was born four days ago, to a girl in Moscow who would have aborted her if Jeanne hadn't stepped in. Now she's ours to love and raise." She peered at her husband through eyes of judgment. "Would you like to hold her?"
Awkwardly, Nolan extended his arms, and Nadia gave the baby to him.
She's so tiny. As if she were barely in this world.
Did God intend me for this? Did He intend you for this, little one?
"Who named her Svetlana?" he croaked.
Nadia frowned. "I did."
"Oh. I thought...never mind." A wave of multifarious emotions, impossible to disentangle, swept over him as he rocked his new daughter in his arms. "Nad...did he show you the house? I mean the one he picked out for us?"
Nadia's frown darkened further. "I picked it out! He just paid for it!"
"He just...oh, damn. Damn damn damn. How can I -- Nad, we can't let him do this! It's too much! It's --"
"It's what he wanted," she said quietly. "He wants you here. Jeanne wants me here. They both want Svetlana here. And the president wants you here for when he comes home. You've guarded him for three years now. He trusts you more than anyone else he knows. Don't you know how badly he wants to come home?"
"I --" Nolan was shorn of all speech.
I have a wife I love beyond all measure. I've been given a home of my own, a career, and a daughter to love. What else is there to ask from life? Season tickets to the Nationals?
Nadia put her arms around him and hugged him and Svetlana gently.
"You know," he said, "you women are better at this conspiracy stuff than we men are."
"And this surprises you?" she said.
"No, I suppose not. Anyway," he said, "what should we do with our stuff in Washington?"
She shrugged.
"Nadia Belinskaya," he murmured, "you are far too formidable for a simple Secret Serviceman to handle. I should have left you in Arkhangelsk. I'm going to have you watched every moment, from here to the grave."
She smirked. "Make sure he's young and handsome, then."
"Ouch!"
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Making It Right (Part 2)
Maureen and Amanda sat side by side on the sofa, clutching one another's hands. Their faces were as expressionless as two store mannequins.
"Well, ladies?" Conway said. He leaned forward in his chair. "Do you have any...questions?"
Maureen's eyes darted to Chris's. He nodded and tried his best to look reassuring.
I should have expected this. It's like telling them that they have no one to count on, that they have to learn to look after themselves. That might frighten them even worse than the attack.
"Dad," Amanda said faintly, "this wouldn't get us in any new trouble, would it?"
"Not a chance, honey. It's just like going to a judo school, except that we won't have to pay anything for it. Mr. Conway is being very generous." He looked sideways at his new employer. "I need to find a way to thank him properly."
Conway snorted. "Having you on my payroll is thanks enough. But yes, Amanda, your dad put it exactly right. You'll be learning pretty much what you would learn at a commercial dojo, but from my staff trainer. A lady not that much older than yourself, I might add." He grinned. "Do you ever wear makeup?"
"Uh, sometimes."
Chris chuckled. "A lot of times."
"She's pretty good with that, too. You might pick up some fashion tips from her."
"Mom?" Amanda pulled Maureen's hand into her lap.
Maureen Harkness was utterly still for a long moment. Chris couldn't even see her breathe.
"Chris," she said, "this won't change anything about us, will it?"
Chris frowned. "Like what, Mo?"
A hint of pain had crept into Maureen's face, as if she were struggling to expel an unwanted thought.
"We won't be dangerous to anyone?"
A spurt of laughter escaped him with his tension. "Well, actually, you will -- but only when you want to be. If you were thinking that you might spontaneously burst into action in the supermarket, you can relax."
The creases had not left Maureen's face. "Please, Chris, don't laugh at me. I've no acquaintance with...this part of your world."
My world.
The phrase rocked him like a slap of challenge.
I brought her here telling her she'd be safe. That Onteora was a tranquil, untroubled place where she and Mandy would feel at home. She came on my assurances. Now I'm encouraging her to become a weapon for her own protection. Like me.
Welcome to my world.
"Mo," he said, "I won't lie to you. This place is not what it was. Maybe it's no better than London, now. But it's our home, and Mandy's home. I don't want us to have to run from it. I can't think where we'd be any better off, anyway."
"I think I'll add an ingredient to the casserole," Conway said. "I can get you both pistol permits, and teach you how to shoot. I'm as good a firearms instructor as Christine is a martial-arts trainer. Between the two of us, we can make each of you a match for anything on two legs. "Of course," he said, grinning, "if you're attacked by a tank, it would still be advisable to run and hide."
Chris felt the temperature in the little living room drop perceptibly.
"Mr. Conway," she said without looking at him, "I come from a place where private firearms are all but unknown, except among criminals. Before we arrived here, I'd not have expected that Chris would be allowed to have one after he separated from the Navy. What you've suggested frightens me in ways I can't express." She rose and pulled Amanda upright beside her. "It will take some time to pass. May we give you our answer on Monday?"
Conway's grin vanished. He rose and nodded.
"Of course, Miss Harkness. I look forward to hearing your decision. And really," he said as an apparent afterthought, "you needn't worry about harming anyone accidentally. Combat skills like the ones Christine will teach you are entirely under your control."
"It wasn't accidental harm I was thinking of," Maureen said.
Conway opened his mouth, closed it without speaking, and departed.
Chris's introduction to service at Integral Security was little like what he'd expected. He was issued a desk, uniforms, and a revolver, but Conway had no policy manual for him, nor was there any great amount of indoctrination or orientation required. Most of his morning and all of his afternoon were spent making the acquaintance of other Integral personnel and chatting with them about their jobs.
He was particularly fascinated by the monitoring room, where the remote security functions were monitored and coordinated. The large room centered on an octagonal bank of ceiling-mounted monitors, which glowed down at workstations manned by Integral uniforms wearing headsets. The place was hushed and dark; extraneous lighting would have made the banks of monitor screens more difficult to watch. Each monitor was surmounted by a legend in large block letters.
FORSLUND 1
LAKESHORE EAST
CODEVILLA NORTH
The Integral personnel that sat before them spoke rarely, always in low tones, and always into their headset microphones, never to one another. Their concentration rivaled that of a chess grandmaster deciding upon a move. Now and then, an electronic dispatch board on the far wall would indicate that patrolman X was moving from his current position to post Y in sector Z. The focus of the operators directing their movement seemed never to waver.
"Daunting, isn't it?"
Chris started at hearing Conway's voice. "Yeah, a bit. How long are their shifts?"
"Two hours." Conway nodded toward the octagon of screens and operators. "I'm thinking of shortening it."
"I can see why. How often do they...?"
Conway grinned. "Since our first couple of years on the job? Not very. But they're my insurance. I have four major customers, and to lose any one of them would put this place into the red. So I make sure they're continuously watched, from here, and from...a bit closer in. If the patrols on the ground miss a developing threat, these guys are odds-on to catch it."
"You're balanced that finely?" Chris asked.
A nod. "This is a service business. A new customer means new hires and fresh trainees. I never let a trained man go. The capital expense would ruin me."
That was meant to reassure me.
"I see. So you concentrate on potential large clients?"
"I have to. I do take smaller businesses, if their situations are suitable, but mostly they're a break-even or lose-a-little proposition. Integral's profits come almost exclusively from the four big apartment complexes those operators are standing watch over." A shadow passed over Conway's eyes. "Twenty-four hundred units, nearly ten thousand people, concentrated into just over a hundred acres. Mostly middle class or better. They make a pretty juicy target."
Chris nodded and said nothing more. Presently Conway said, "You know, it might be a good thing for you to spend a few shifts on-site at those customers, as local supervisor. It would give you a better idea of the work, at least."
Chris smirked. "You hired me as a watch commander after two hours of casual conversation, but you think I need to learn about security work?"
Conway looked him levelly in the eyes. "Every security situation is unique, Chris. No two of mine are at all alike, anyway." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a PDA. "You're going to Amherst Estates tomorrow. You'll be standing in for Sylvia Wang, who can use the rest anyway. I'll notify the watch commander. Your shift will begin at eight AM. Be here at seven. In uniform."
Chris didn't expect his stint as a shift supervisor to be exciting. It wasn't. A day went by, then another and another, without any development more stirring than a dropped bag of groceries registering on the monitors in the Amherst Estates gatehouse. Training and long habit kept him alert; the openness of the Amherst residents and the surprisingly easy camaraderie of his new coworkers made it pleasant.
Late in the afternoon of his third day at the Amherst post, a Mercedes stopped at the gate and a tall, gaunt man in a navy-blue suit emerged from behind the wheel. The man went directly to the window from which Chris peered and offered a hand. Chris shook it.
"New man?"
Chris nodded. "Yes, sir. Temporary shift supervisor. My name's Chris Chase. I expect Sylvia will be back Monday after next."
The man smiled. "Welcome to Amherst, Chris. I'm Jack Schilling. Seen anything untoward lately?"
The owner! "Nothing but a small mess in the lobby of Thirty-Five Kettle Knoll, sir." He glanced over at the monitors. "Looks like your maintenance staff have dealt with it already."
Schilling nodded. "They're good. But nothing else? No scuffles along the perimeter, say?"
Chris shook his head. "Why do you ask?"
Schilling looked away, toward Fifteen Forslund Avenue. The lines around his mouth writhed as if he'd tasted something unpleasant.
"Two of my tenants have reported missing kids. Teenaged sons they haven't seen in two days. It's a police matter now, but I had to ask if you've seen them in the area, in trouble or otherwise."
Chris swiftly reviewed the three days past. He shook his head. "The only traffic in or out of Amherst has been vehicular, sir. Of course, they could have been on a school bus, but I wouldn't have known about it. Do you have pictures of them?"
Schilling dipped a hand into a jacket pocket, brought out two photos, and passed them to Chris. Each one depicted a scowling, swarthy teenager in a T-shirt and the baggy jeans that were the current adolescent affectation.
"The one holding the soccer ball is Heshayem Mohamed. The other one is Riyadh ibn Sharif."
"Mandy?"
Chris had caught Amanda with a mouthful of dinner. She held up a hand while she chewed and swallowed.
"What, Dad?"
Chris forked up a bite of beef. "Have you been enjoying the training sessions with Christine?"
She nodded vigorously. "She's great. It's a lot of fun." Her eyes darted to Maureen. "You really should try it, Mom."
Maureen smiled wistfully. "It's a sort of fun better suited to a young woman than an old one, dear. Enjoy it. You have the talent for it. Your old Mum will stick to her crocheting and cooking classes."
"Oh, come on, you're not that old!"
The edges of Maureen's eyes crinkled. "Old enough to know better than to let my daughter toss me around like a rag doll. How would I ever get you to clean your room after that?"
Amanda giggled and looked down at her plate. Chris forebore to comment. For a few moments, the family ate in silence.
Presently Amanda said, "How's the new job going, Dad?"
Chris shrugged. "Nothing much to tell, so far. I'm on station at one of Integral's customers, learning about what we're supposed to do."
"It's weird seeing you in that uniform, though."
He laughed and reached across the table to tweak his stepdaughter's nose. She squealed and bounced in her chair.
She looks so perfect. Beautiful and happy and secure. As if the rape never happened.
"Don't get used to it, honey. Mr. Conway will have me back inside at the end of next week. Speaking of next week..." He halted at the edge of his question.
Amanda's face turned serious in an instant. "What, Dad?"
"Do you...think you might be ready to go back to school on Monday?"
Chris had expected Amanda to react in some fashion, but her furtive, almost shameful expression came as a surprise.
Maureen said, "Chris."
"Hm? What, love?"
"Perhaps another week for Amanda to...heal would be a good idea."
The gravity of Maureen's eyes forbade him to differ. Amanda said nothing.
Chris exhaled and nodded. "All right. I'll tell the school. If they have a problem with it, they can take it up with me."
"Thank you, Dad," Amanda murmured. Her gaze flicked over to her mother.
Maureen nodded.
By the end of Chris's second week with Integral, the entire county was abuzz with speculation and fear. Not only had neither Heshayem Mohamed nor Riyadh ibn Sharif returned from wherever, but Tariq al-Malim, Farooq ibn Azzam, and Maroun Mazaram had vanished as well. Deputy Chief Khaldoun had promised their families, and the general public, that "the vile kidnapper who's targeted the innocent children of five of Onteora's leading families" would be pursued with all the resources of the department. Chief of Police Raymond Lawrence did not trouble to qualify Khaldoun's statement.
Chris had been trained not to believe in coincidences. He'd already suspected private action when Jack Schilling told him of the disappearance of the first two teens. What he couldn't work out were the agency and the motivation.
Unless the rapists had bragged about their exploit, which struck Chris as unlikely, only three persons knew with certainty who had participated in the assault: Amanda, Kevin Conway, and Chris himself. Hassan Khaldoun might know; Chris suspected that he did. But it was next to inconceivable that the deputy chief would have taken any action against the other five, when they could so easily have implicated his own, as yet unvanished son.
Any action, that is, short of killing them.
He suppressed the urge to raise the subject with Conway. If the security chief was acting against Amanda's rapists for him, no doubt he'd be told in due course. Anyway. he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Sunday dawned bright and clear, a perfect, sunny and gently breezy spring morning. Chris and his family rose early, showered, dressed, and headed for the seven o'clock Mass at Our Lady of the Pines, the better to clear the day for whatever recreations Maureen and Amanda might have in mind.
Amanda seemed unusually jumpy, far more agitated than usual even for a teenaged girl. She could hardly sit still in church, fidgeting, shuffling, and frequently glancing over at her stepfather as if she were awaiting some kind of signal. Chris did his best to ignore it and concentrate on the service, but made a mental note to speak to the girl afterward about proper behavior in church.
At the end of Mass, they found Kevin Conway awaiting them at the door. Chris's eyebrows rose at the sight of his boss.
"Are you a parishioner?"
Conway shook his head. "No, I'm here for you. We're needed over at the First Precinct." His expression gave no clue as to the need. He turned to Maureen. "I'll need Mrs. Chase and Amanda as well."
Only one possible reason. I hope I can account for my whereabouts for every minute of the past two weeks.
The group was silent on the drive to the precinct headquarters. Chris concentrated on reviewing his own movements. There were several periods for which he couldn't name a witness to his location or conduct. He tried not to worry over them.
Hell of it is, whoever's been at work has done a damned thorough job. Unless he's been caught and we're going to meet him, he's done it without leaving any hint of his existence. I couldn't have done as well myself.
The desk sergeant sent them deep into the precinct's inner sanctum, in the company of two uniforms Chris had never met. Conway led the way in silence.
Presently they stood before a large, tinted glass partition. On the other side of the partition were four impassive-looking uniforms and six swarthy young men, writhing and clutching their groins as if in agony. When Chris laid eyes on them, he came to full alert. He glanced at his stepdaughter, but she showed no reaction.
"Recognize them?" Hassan Khaldoun's deep bass voice caused Chris to whirl in surprise. The deputy chief was looking at Amanda, who had not turned.
"Heshayam Mohamed," she said calmly, still looking through the glass. "Tariq al-Malim. Farooq ibn Azzam. Maroun Mazaram. Riyadh ibn Sharif. And Khalid Khaldoun. The six boys who raped me two weeks ago yesterday."
"You knew their names all this time," Khaldoun said. "You hid evidence from a felony investigation. You played the innocent victim --"
Amanda turned, eyes flashing. "I was the innocent victim, Mr. Khaldoun. Yes, I knew their names. They were my schoolmates, after all. But I also knew that one of them was your son. What did you know?"
Her poise was shocking. Chris had never before seen her face down an adult of any stature, for any reason. Yet, toe to toe with the second highest cop in the county, she seemed entirely without fear.
Khaldoun fell silent and turned away.
"Chief," Chris said, "why are we here?"
"To corroborate their confessions," Khaldoun said, still looking away.
"They confessed to the rape?"
"Not just to Amanda's rape," Conway said. "These six have been very busy boys. They have seven gang rapes to their credit in Onteora alone. And Hamilton County wants to have a few words with them as well."
"But why? I mean," Chris faltered, momentarily silenced by incredulity, "why did they confess?"
"To end their pain."
Todd Iverson stepped out of the hallway behind them as naturally as if he were entering his own home. He waved casually at Conway, who grinned in response.
"You can see that they're not exactly happy little soldiers just now, Chris," Iverson said. "That's because their most recent escapades in hunting kuffar sluts to degrade didn't go quite as well as the earlier ones. They've been dosed with a compound that causes massive inflammation of the vas deferens. The pain is continuous and quite severe. They were told that they'd get the antidote only when they'd confessed to every crime they'd ever committed, in full view of police witnesses and representatives of the D.A." He held up a bottle of pills. "Would you care to do the honors, Chief Khaldoun?"
The big cop's face had gone from bone-white to mottled fury in a flash.
"You tortured them," he whispered. "You seized them and held them and tortured my firstborn son!" With a scream he launched himself at the much smaller Iverson.
Before Khaldoun could close on him, Iverson flicked the pill bottle to Conway, surged forward and delivered a knife-hand strike to the cop's solar plexus. It was a punch of at least as much force as Chris could have put behind it, placed with exquisite precision. Khaldoun went down on the instant, curled around his agony in a perfect replication of his son, struggling to draw the tiniest breaths. Iverson dropped to a squat beside him.
"I didn't have anything to do with it, Chief. Well, except for developing the drug they were given. Your boy and his buddies followed a lure. It took three tries before we got them all. We made sure Khalid was the last, just in case you knew about his involvement."
"What lure?" Chris whispered.
"Me," Amanda said.
"And me," Maureen said.
"And me."
From the shadows in the hallway stepped Christine D'Alessandro.
"Todd explained it very succinctly," Maureen said, her hand warm atop his. "One must match the bait to the prey. To catch a lion, stake out a goat. To catch a rapist, tempt him with a likely looking victim."
"But did it have to be you and Amanda?" Chris said. "What if something had gone wrong?"
"Christine was always there," Maureen said. "She's quite...capable, you know."
"Yes," he said. "I do know."
What I didn't know is that I married into a family more ruthless than I am myself.
"So Kevin and Todd don't really despise one another?"
Maureen produced an uncharacteristic smirk. "Not a bit of it. How could you ever have thought so? They're two of the three best men in the county."
"Mo, I'm not certain how I feel about all this." He shook his head, went to the stove and poured himself more coffee. "I'm supposed to be the violent one." He resumed his seat beside his wife. "If you and Mandy are capable of this, what on Earth do you need me for?"
Maureen's eyes lit with affection. "My wild colonial boy has his uses. Many of them, at that. Surely you're not offended that we managed to rope and tie those savages without you?"
Chris started to answer, bit it back.
Maybe I am, a little.
"No, I suppose I shouldn't be. And I'm not...much. Anyway, this isn't a union shop. You can do whatever you can do. But," he said, "I'd have liked to be in on it, too."
Maureen shook her head. "That was the one thing we were all against. Your methods are too drastic, Chris. You'd have turned the game into something that could never come to light. Amanda and I don't want to lose you, the way we lost Ernest."
"I killed the man who killed Ernest," he croaked. "I --"
"Yes, you did," Maureen said. "And that was the exact moment I fell in love with you, and decided that I would follow you no matter where you might go, and never, ever allow you to come to any harm. How many men -- how many blooded warriors would have charged into the scene you found that day and done justice as you did, while hundreds of my bloodless countrymen stood aside and watched?" She clutched his hand. "You are the most precious thing in my world. In Amanda's, too. We had to protect you from yourself."
Chris gaped.
"Christine wants you to start coming to our training sessions. She said your footwork wasn't everything it should be. Starting tomorrow night, all right?"
"What about my baseball games?"
"We have a DVR, don't we?"
"It's not the same!"
Maureen's eyes flashed with sudden command. "Get used to it, sailor."
"Uh, yes, ma'am!"
Making It Right (Part 1)
Christopher Chase clutched his wife Maureen's hand and waited with all the patience he could muster. From his first days in uniform, through his SEAL training and his baptism of fire in the Middle East, to the day he'd asked Maureen for her hand, nothing had ever been harder. After half an eternity, a short, stocky blonde woman in a nondescript blue suit came out of the examining room, looked about, and headed directly for them. Chris rose, pulling Maureen with him.
"Mr. and Mrs. Chase? I'm Detective Sonia Petievich." She extended a hand, and Chris took it mechanically. "Let's do the most important part first. Apart from some bruising that will heal in a few days, your daughter is unharmed."
Maureen sighed and slumped in relief. Chris looked the policewoman levelly in the eyes. "Apart from some bruising, the loss of her virginity, and one hell of a sense of violation."
Petievich's face tightened. "Well, yes. But as far as the doctors can tell, she suffered no physical damage. There were no traces of disease organisms in the assay, no indications of septic contamination, and no damage to her internal organs. She'll certainly be able to bear children."
Chris kept silent with an effort. The usual activity of the hospital flowed around and past them, to all appearances unconcerned with their family's agony, but to Chris it seemed that every eye was riveted to their three-person tableau, every ear cocked to drink in the details of Amanda's gang rape.
Petievich noticed. She pitched her voice as low as she could. "Dr. Floyd says there's no reason she has to stay overnight. You can take her home when she's finished dressing. How early tomorrow can you have her at the precinct to make a statement?"
"It will be a while longer," Chris said, "before we know whether she's pregnant."
"Of course," Petievich said. "But the hospital can provide her with the 'morning-after pill,' if that's a great concern to you.
Maureen stiffened. Chris chafed her hand for a moment before turning back to the policewoman and fishing under his dress shirt for the crucifix pendant he always wore. He brandished the little cross at Petievich and scowled.
"We don't do that, Detective. Thanks for your time and concern."
"Just a moment --"
"Good night, Detective."
He pulled his wife past the policewoman and through the door behind which Amanda awaited them.
If one didn't peer too closely, Amanda looked no different. Her face was unchanged. She moved with her usual swift, staccato efficiency as she dressed and made ready to depart. Only the fires of Hell flickering deep behind her eyes testified to the savagery that had been visited upon her.
Her narrative was heartbreakingly concise. She had to go through it twice before Chris could form a reply. Despite all the troubles they'd had with vandalism and petty theft in the three years past, he could hardly believe such a thing could happen in a neighborhood as sleepy and intimate as theirs. When he did find his voice, he had few words upon which to exercise it.
"Did you recognize them?"
Amanda nodded.
"Did you tell the policewoman? Did you give their names?"
She shook her head.
Chris closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Good."
Maureen's eyes flared wide. She clutched at his hand. "Chris --"
He fixed her with a gaze utterly devoid of emotion, and she lapsed into silence.
"They're dead, Mo. They just haven't fallen over yet. Let it rest for tonight."
From the corner of his eye he saw Amanda's face empty of blood. He turned and looked directly into her eyes, and she flinched.
"Did you think I was going to leave it to the police, Mandy? The same police who can't tell us who's been breaking into our barn? That responded to three reports of cars stolen right out of our driveway by shrugging and saying 'boys will be boys?'"
"Chris," Maureen whispered, "you could land in the nick yourself."
He nodded. "That's the usual comeback to a citizen who's been abused. 'Let the police do their job,' they say. 'Stick to what you know best,' they say. 'It's safer that way.' Not this time, Mo. This time, they die."
His wife flinched and pulled away. He gripped her hand tightly and drew her back to him.
"Not tonight, Mo. But soon." He turned back to his violated stepdaughter. "Come on, Mandy. It's time to go home."
Amanda stood paralyzed, her canvas backpack dangling from her shoulder.
"Dad," she said, her words barely audible, "What if I see them at school?"
"You won't be going back to school for a few days, honey."
"But when I do...?"
Chris smiled ferally. "You can tell them that they're dead, honey. It won't matter at all."
As Chris turned into the driveway of their Foxwood home, his headlights revealed a large gray Ford sedan already parked in it. Instinct compelled him to reach past his wife, pop open the glove box and extract the loaded M1911 he kept with him at all times. He pulled his Suburban carefully alongside the Ford, and saw that Sonia Petievich sat behind the wheel. She emerged and strode toward the driver's side door as he killed his engine and set the parking brake.
He opened his door, forcing the detective backward, and stepped down from his truck. Before she could speak, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Go inside, ladies. I'll be in presently." Maureen's eyes opened a millimeter wider. After a moment she nodded, wrapped an arm around Amanda's shoulders and shepherded her toward the front door.
"Was there something else, Detective?" He thrust the Colt into his waistband and crossed his arms over his chest.
Petievich's eyes flicked imperceptibly toward the Colt's grip and back to Chris's face. "I assume you have a carry permit for that iron."
"No you don't," Chris returned. "You know I do. It's been more than an hour since we met at Onteora General. That's more than enough time for you to have learned everything public about me. You know I have a federal pistol permit." He smiled. "One that can't be overridden by any state or local ordinance."
Petievich nodded.
"So what more can I do for you, Detective? Or are you here to tell me something you can do for me?"
"Mr. Chase," the policewoman said haltingly, "is there any possibility your stepdaughter --"
"Her name is Amanda," Chris growled.
A spasm passed over Petievich's face. "Yes, of course. Is there any possibility Amanda might be willing to name her attackers, so that we can all see justice done?"
Chris tried to repress his wolflike grin and failed utterly. "Hmmm, let's see. Six rapists, one accuser. Just for the sake of a thought experiment, let's assume she could name them. What defense do you suppose they would mount in response?"
Petievich said nothing. The first fingers of predawn light were reaching over the eastern horizon. She looked once more at the gun he'd tucked into his pants.
On impulse, Chris pulled the weapon out of his waistband, removed the clip and offered it grip first to the policewoman. She accepted it with a grave expression, examined it with casual but professional interest, and handed it back.
"Service issue?"
Chris shook his head. "Private purchase. Custom sights and trigger. I can give you the name of the gunsmith, if you like."
"Not tonight. Do you keep a rating?"
"Why ask, Detective? It's filed at the same site as my federal permit."
Petievich scowled again. "I have to warn you about the hazards and likely consequences of vigilante action. If anything happens to those boys --"
"What boys?"
"The ones who raped your --"
Chris bared his teeth, and the detective fell silent.
"The ones who raped Amanda, Detective? Those boys? What are their names, pray tell? If you know them, why aren't they already in police custody, where nothing bad could happen to them? Apart from indictment and trial, that is."
"You must understand, Mr. Chase," Petievich said tightly, "that if anything were to happen to them outside the processes of the law, you would be the prime suspect. We'd be on your ass before you could get your dick back into your pants."
The sun poked its limb above the horizon, washing Sonia Petievich's blunt Slavic features with reddish dawnlight. Chris could see that her heart wasn't in the message she'd felt compelled to deliver. Given her evident youth, it seemed likely that she'd never faced a comparable duty before.
"I love your delicate way with imagery, Detective. But I have no more knowledge of Amanda's attackers than you. So they're about as safe from me as any worthless rape-minded scum in this county could be. I assume that if you learn who they are, you'll give us a courtesy notification that they've been captured, at least?"
Petievich closed her eyes and nodded.
Chris snorted and made for his door.
Chris was suspended halfway between the personnel report before him and the vengeance fantasy unrolling in his mind's eye when the ringing of his desk phone startled him away from both. He snatched at the handset in irritation and wedged it between his head and shoulder.
"Security."
"Chris, it's Todd. Do you have a few minutes for me?"
"Uh, sure, Todd. Be right up." Chris flipped the handset back into its cradle, rose and trotted for the stairs.
He found Todd Iverson in his usual posture, crouched over his desk, peering into his computer monitor as if he could read tomorrow's headlines from it. So spectacular and uninterrupted had Arcologics's rise been that no few of Iverson's competitors believed exactly that. Chris closed Iverson's office door quietly behind him, slipped into one of his leather guest chairs, and waited for the CEO to notice him.
Iverson thrust his mouse aside, tilted back in his chair and swung his feet up onto his desk. As always, he was wearing the high-heeled platform boots that had become one of his signature practices. They clunked woodenly against the surface of the desk.
From his first day at the company, Chris had wondered why Iverson was so sensitive about his height. Arcologics's owner and CEO was a polymathic genius. He'd steered his firm to the top of half a dozen different fields without apparent effort. He seemed ready, willing, and able to master any field at all, if the profit potential were sufficient. He treated his employees like beloved relatives, and they were unanimous in their adoration of him. His wife Jeanne, a petite blonde beauty who was also the company's benefits liaison and ombudsman, had hinted that he possessed powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. "Don't ask," she'd giggled. "There are some things we'd rather keep to ourselves." Why so gifted a man would be insecure about his height was impossible to fathom.
Everyone is sensitive about something. Best to let it pass.
"You're planning to hit the vermin that raped Amanda, aren't you?" Iverson said without preliminary.
Chris started in his seat. "You knew?"
"Of course I knew," Iverson said. "And I'm a leeeetle concerned that my top cop might be about to go outside the law to avenge his daughter's honor."
So he has sources inside the Onteora police. Why does that surprise me?
Maybe because he's so fastidious.
"I can deal with it, Todd."
Iverson's eyes went flat. He shook his head once, very slowly.
"How did I find out, Chris? Do you really expect that any of those boys could even stub a toe without it being blamed on you?"
Chris grimaced. "Maybe so. But we both know the Onteora police aren't worth a damn any more. If Amanda's going to have justice --"
Iverson held up a hand, and Chris swallowed the rest of his sentence. The CEO rose from his chair and sauntered over to his office window. It was a strange view for the office of a multimillionaire; it overlooked the Arcologics parking lot, beyond which there were only trees.
"Is it justice you want?" he said softly.
Chris bit back his reflex response and briefly closed his eyes.
"Maybe a little more than that."
"Do you think that's what Amanda wants?"
"I haven't asked her."
Iverson turned to face him, brown eyes deep and brilliant.
"And why would that be?"
It stopped him cold.
Because you've made this into a personal contest between you and those young pricks, haven't you? Amanda is secondary to your need to prove that no one can abuse someone under your protection and get away with it.
His hands, which he'd unconsciously balled into fists, relaxed in his lap. He laid his palms along his thighs and said, "I assume you have a suggestion?"
Iverson looked at him critically a moment longer, then resumed his seat, boots up on the desk once again.
"Not a suggestion," Iverson said. "An offer, and a constraint. Until you get closure on this you'll be unable to concentrate, and I can't have that in my Director of Security. Also, I don't want to lose you. I know a little about the impulse to vengeance. A man can easily lose his perspective under that sort of stimulus. So I called you here to offer you a deal."
Chris drew a quick, sharp breath. "What sort of deal?"
Iverson grinned devilishly. "You can have the full resources of your department to use however you wish, including what's left of its operating budget for the year, so long as neither you nor anyone you hire or supervise lays the lightest finger on any of those gangbangers."
Chris's mouth fell open.
"Do you doubt my right, Chris? It is my company, you know."
"But --"
"That's the deal." Iverson spread his hands. "You want justice for Amanda? Use your department. Find a way to get it without inflicting violence on the scum that raped her. I don't want to have to bail you out of jail, and for sure I don't want to have to testify at your murder trial." He waved at the door. "Go chew on it for a while. You don't have to give me an explicit answer. I'll know."
Chris rose shakily. "I expect you will."
Iverson nodded. "Count on it."
Maureen laid her hand atop Chris's. "You're sure he's serious?"
Chris nodded. "Serious as cancer. He'd never make such an offer and not mean it."
She squeezed his hand, went to the stove, and filled their teakettle. Chris grinned. His wife's responses to stress were as regular as a metronome: make a pot of tea, change the curtains in the dining room, rummage through one of their closets for clothes to be given to the parish charity closet. Yet her regularity and serenity had tamed the wild man he'd once been: a creature to whom an even-money chance of being hacked to death by Muslim terrorists was the sort of moment he lived for.
Why me? Why did a widowed English nurse, seven years older than me and with a half-grown daughter to protect, take a chance on the ruffian I was? How did she know she could civilize me and why did I let her do it?
His hand went automatically to the small gold crucifix pendant she'd given him upon his baptism.
Does it matter? She and Mandy are the best things ever to happen to me. Thank you, Lord. I am truly blessed.
"It could be," Maureen said as she fiddled with the teapot, "that Todd meant exactly what he said. He usually does. But it could also be that he expects you to wear out your anger without ever bringing those hooligans to book. Maybe he expects that in two or three weeks you'll throw the whole thing up as a bad job and put your mind back on your work."
The notion was uncomfortable. Chris grimaced and tried to consider it dispassionately.
"Todd's a straight shooter, Mo. Plus, he's met Amanda. How could anyone who's met her not want to tear her rapists limb from limb?" The way I want to.
She looked back over her shoulder at him and nodded.
"Which would mean..." The kettle screamed, and Chris trailed off.
"What, dear?" Maureen brought the pot to the kettle, filled it carefully, and deposited it on the dinette table between them. She reached for Chris's hands, and he gave them to her.
"Which would mean he wants me to take it seriously...maybe so he won't take a hand in it himself."
Maureen's forehead wrinkled. "He's not a very physical person, though. Is he?"
"Not that I've seen."
Her eyes locked with his. "That you've seen."
"Right."
Chris tapped gently at Amanda's bedroom door. "Mandy, honey?"
There was no answer, but a moment later the door creaked open to reveal Amanda Harkness's pale, tear-streaked face. It was enough to call Chris back to his pitch of rage of the night before.
She's letting it out. It had to happen eventually.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
She nodded and beckoned him in. He sat on her bed and gestured for her to sit beside him. She did, and he settled an arm around her shoulders.
"I have a problem, honey." He drew a deep breath and did his best to settle himself. "I don't quite know what to do about...those boys."
She said nothing, only drew herself closer against him.
"Do you remember Todd? I mean, my boss?"
He felt her nod.
"He told me..." Chris swallowed. Now that he was at the point of doing so, the notion of asking Amanda what she would consider justice for her violation seemed absurd. But Iverson had plainly had something in mind...something he couldn't tell Chris directly, because he expected that the ex-SEAL would snort it aside.
"What, Dad?" Amanda's voice was feather-soft.
"He told me that I should ask you...what you think I should do. What would make things right. Well, as close to right as we can get it." He toyed with the idea of telling her of Iverson's offer, and rejected it.
"Dad, you can unscrew a light bulb --"
"But you can't unscrew a girl." He caressed her hair, and she snuggled closer yet. Not for the first time, he marveled that this delicate creature, who'd been reaved of her father, her friends, and her childhood home, could be so open and trusting. "I know, honey. But we have to do the best we can. I just want to know what you think."
"What about the police?" she murmured.
Yeah, what about them? What could I slip past them, now that they know about me? That Petievich broad seemed pretty sharp. For all I know, she might even be honest.
"I don't think we can count on them for anything, honey. This...sort of thing has been happening a lot lately. I haven't heard of any arrests being made for it."
"Wouldn't they try to stop you?" She looked up at him, doe-eyed, ready to accept whatever he might say.
He nodded. "They'd try. And if something really horrible happened to one of those boys -- say, if he fell down in front of a speeding truck -- and they thought I'd done it, things could get pretty bad for us." Again.
"Then you mustn't." Her arms went around his waist. "I'll be all right."
"I know you will, honey. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't do anything, does it? We can at least try to think of something clever, you and me." Something to fix their little red wagons permanently.
"It has to be really clever, then," she said. "Because the police can't know it was you, or things will get lots worse."
He nodded.
Something humiliating, that will leave them knowing they've been punished, but that they'd never dream of taking to the cops. Something they wouldn't even talk about among themselves.
"I might get an idea, honey. And I promise you that if I don't, I won't do anything that would mean any more trouble, either for you or for me."
"Do you think you can keep them from doing this to some other girl?" she said.
He caressed her hair again. "I might."
Her gaze was steady. He could feel her weighing his ingenuity against his rage, and her own need for justice against her fear of losing him.
"Then I'll tell you who they are."
"Mo?"
"Yes, love?" Maureen didn't turn from her sinkful of dishes.
"Do you think it's true that rape is about power?"
Maureen didn't answer. She fished a saucepan from the sudsy water and scrubbed it as if getting it perfectly clean were the only imperative of existence.
"Mo?"
The silence persisted. Chris rose from the table, went to his wife and put his hands to her waist. She rinsed the saucepan, deposited it in the drying rack and leaned back against him.
"It must be," she said. "Especially here in...in America. The girls are all so free with their favors. Why would anyone feel he needed to rape just to get a bit of tail?"
He slipped his arms further around her waist and hugged her to him. "Maybe I shouldn't say. I wouldn't want you to think any worse of us here in the colonies."
She chuckled and reached up to caress his face. "I have my wild colonial boy. What does it matter what I think of the rest of your lot?"
He squeezed her gently, and she let her head loll back against his chest.
It matters. I want you to be happy with your new homeland. I don't want you to grouse about having traded down-at-the-heels England for prosperous but wild-West America. Even if you never say a word, I'll know.
"You haven't been here that long, Mo," he said. "Actually, I haven't either. I'd been in the Navy for fourteen years when I met you, and I hadn't been back home in all that time."
She turned in his embrace and frowned at him. "You didn't use your leave to come stateside?"
"Mostly not. I spent most of them in the nearest fleshpot. Paris, Tokyo, Seoul, Taipei, Sydney." He smiled. "And London, of course. I did come back to America on two occasions. But what I meant was that I hadn't come back to Onteora. When you and I and Mandy arrived here, I could see at once that things had been moving in a new direction. One I didn't like." One I took you out of England to get you away from, and then found it waiting for us here.
He put his hands to the sides of her face and stroked gently.
"When I joined up, this was a safe, clean, peaceful place. Not exciting, and not particularly prosperous, but a good place for kids to grow up. A good place for people who mostly wanted to be left alone. We hadn't had but one capital crime in all the years I'd lived here, and I don't remember ever hearing about a rape. But things have changed. There's...a new element in the county, one you might remember from your troubles in London. It doesn't hold to the norms I was taught as a boy." Or the ones I honor as a man.
Maureen paled. He could almost read the memories unrolling behind her eyes.
"The same...element that killed Ernest?"
He nodded. "Younger, but the same." And Todd Iverson has forbidden me to deal with them in the way I know best. The way I followed for fourteen years in one hellhole after another.
"Chris, how could...your people have been so stupid, after everything they've heard about Britain and Europe, to let them in here?"
Christopher Chase, retired Navy SEAL who had lost count of the terrorists he'd killed in his years at arms, pulled his wife close and whispered into her ear.
"I don't know, Mo. But if it can be fixed, I'll fix it. At least here, now, for us."
Kevin Conway, the owner-operator of Integral Security, was a tall, broad-shouldered, pleasant-faced man in his forties with thick red-brown hair, keen hazel eyes, the manners of a diplomat, and the build of a professional brawler. He wore a plain khaki-green uniform with Integral embroidered over the breast pocket of his tunic. A short-barreled revolver was holstered at his right hip. He gestured Chris into a guest chair and sat at his desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Chase?" he said.
Chris's eyes roamed curiously around the little office. Conway had chosen accommodations even starker than Todd Iverson's. The room was about fifteen feet square, with walls of whitewashed cinder block. Its sole window looked down on an idle street. Conway's desk and bookcases were standard sheet-steel office gear. The wall behind him, where nearly any other executive, Iverson included, would have an "I love me" array festooned with awards, certificates, and testimonials, bore only his diploma from the University of Rochester and Integral's corporate license from the New York State Department of Commerce.
Well, a man best known for facing down the county and state governments isn't likely to need ego sops.
"Well, sir, I have a problem I can't solve myself, and I can't take to the police."
Conway squinted. "A security matter? You're Arcologics's security officer, aren't you?"
"No, sir, not exactly."
"Then what? Oh, you can drop the 'sir,' by the way. I'm Kevin to everyone."
"A crime." Chris breathed deeply and reminded himself to stay calm. "My...my daughter Amanda was gang-raped in Beregond Park the night before last. She was on her way home from gymnastics practice."
Conway said nothing. His sole reaction was a tightening of the muscles around his eyes.
"Todd -- Mr. Iverson has given me the full resources of my department to use in obtaining justice, but on a condition: he doesn't want any violence done to Amanda's attackers, by me or anyone I hire."
"And that," Conway said slowly, "puts the matter a little out of your line."
Chris nodded. "I was hoping for the benefit of your counsel."
"You have it, for what it's worth. But Chris -- may I call you Chris?"
"Of course."
"Thank you. Do you have a particular reason not to leave the matter to the police?"
Chris grinned despite himself. "You mean, apart from their corruption and general ineptitude?"
Conway grinned crookedly. "Yes, apart from that."
"As it happens, I do." Chris slid forward in his seat. "Amanda recognized her attackers, Kevin. She gave me six names, and assured me that she was in no doubt about any of them. They're boys at Foxwood High, where she goes." The point of no return was upon him. "If I give you their names, will you hold them in confidence?"
Conway hesitated, then nodded once.
"Tariq al-Malim," Chris said. "Heshayem Mohamed. Farooq ibn Azzam. Maroun Mazaram. Riyadh ibn Sharif. And Khalid Khaldoun."
Conway's face shed all expression. "Khalid Khaldoun, the eldest son of Hassan Khaldoun?"
Chris nodded. "The very same."
"Well, I can see why you don't want to involve the police. Does anyone know those names besides yourself and your daughter?"
"Only you, Kevin. Do you have any thoughts to share with me, or should I leave you to ponder the matter for awhile?"
Conway rose and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Only that one doesn't casually charge the apple of the deputy chief's eye with a major felony." He looked down at his desk. "Otherwise, I believe I will have to ponder this for a stretch. Would you like some coffee? Our cafeteria blend is excellent, if I do say so myself."
Chris rose. "Are there jelly doughnuts to go with it?"
"Of course. Fresh as of this morning."
"Then I'm buying."
Conway wiped his hands free of sugar and picked up his mug. "I see three major aspects to the problem." He held up a finger. "First, you want to punish the thugs who raped Amanda."
"That's absolute," Chris said.
Another finger. "Second, you want to stay out of jail yourself." Conway grinned. "At least, I would. And we can't assume that the police don't know who Amanda's rapists were, since one of them is the deputy chief's son." He raised a third finger. "Third and last, but not trivial even by comparison to the other points, you want to remain in your employer's good graces." The security chief's brow furrowed. "Actually, that might not be as hard as you think. Iverson specified that neither you nor anyone you hire or supervise was to lay a hand on those boys, correct?"
Chris nodded. "Close to his exact words."
"Okay, we'll come back to that." Conway sipped at his coffee and peered over the rim at Chris. "Do you have any constraints you want to lay on the solution, Chris?"
"Nothing you probably haven't thought of yourself," Chris said. "Protect my family from further violation, restore Amanda's sense of security, ensure that those bastards never hurt anyone else, get a brand-new Mercedes and a mansion in Chedwick..."
"Hm?"
"Well, as long as we're composing wish lists."
Conway chuckled. "Oh. Okay. What about time? Will you be able to keep calm if this should take a while?"
Chris tensed. He tried not to let it show. "How long a while?"
Conway didn't answer him at once. He pushed his chair a little way back from the cafeteria table and looked over at the knot of uniforms gathered around the pastries table. Chris assessed them soberly. Seven men, two women, of varying sizes and colors. All were fit and clean-cut, plainly at ease with their trade and its duties. Each wore a holstered short-barreled revolver at his right hip.
I might have been one of them, if the dice had fallen a little differently. I wonder if I'd have enjoyed it.
"It's a matter of priorities," Conway said. "If you're willing to skimp on some of the lesser priorities for the sake of a speedy resolution, we could get it done pretty quickly."
We?
"On the other hand," Conway continued, "if those lesser priorities really aren't that much less, and you're willing to take some time about the thing, perhaps we could satisfy them all. You said Amanda is a gymnast?"
Chris nodded. "A good one. Quick and graceful."
"Have you considered having her punish those boys herself?"
Chris opened his mouth, closed it again, and thought hard.
"Combat training?"
Conway nodded. His face was grave.
"I have a genius trainer on my staff. All my new hires have to pass muster with her before I'll put them on a detail. Are you familiar with the various schools of unarmed combat?"
Chris grinned. "You could say so."
Conway's eyes glinted. "Do you have a favorite? One at which you'd be willing to match your skills against anyone?"
Chris shrugged. "What I've studied doesn't really have a name. But it works well enough. I'd give you some references, but I'm afraid they're all dead."
Conway drained his coffee and stood. "Then it's time for you to meet Christine."
The statuesque brunette beauty who'd trounced Chris as if he were a boot camp newbie knelt beside him with a look of concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Chris blinked away the swarming blue fireflies and squinted up at her. "No, it's okay, but would you do me a favor, please?"
"Sure, what?" She extended a hand and hauled him to his feet. He straightened up tentatively and heaved a sigh.
"Wrap your gi a little tighter? It's, ah, sort of a distraction."
Christine D'Alessandro glanced down at her exposed cleavage and giggled. "Sorry." She pulled her gi more closely around her and snugged the belt. "Look, you're pretty good, but your style is definitely a man's style. We ladies have to do things a little differently. How big did you say Amanda is?"
Chris glanced over at Kevin Conway, who sat in a folding metal chair at the edge of the mats. The security chief was watching without expression.
If he's serious about this, I'd be a fool to pass it up. This gal could take Chuck Norris, Jackie Chan, and Jet Li without working up a sweat.
But will Amanda go for it? Will Maureen?
"About the same size as her mother: five-five, a hundred ten pounds. That's not what she would say, of course."
Christine cocked an eyebrow. "Body image problems?"
Chris grinned. "No, metric-system problems. Mo and Mandy are Brits. To them, it's a hundred sixty-five centimeters and fifty kilos."
"Oh. Well, if you can get them here twice a week -- Tuesday and Friday afternoons okay, Kevin?" Conway nodded. "I can teach them anything they're willing to learn."
Chris reviewed his family's multiple schedules. "Could you stand to have them show up in the evenings?"
Christine shrugged. "Not a problem for me. In fact, if they're willing, I could have them here every evening of the week. Do you think they'll go for it?"
Chris forced himself to consider it carefully.
"It'll be a departure for both of them. They're very gentle. This country sort of frightens them."
"Do you frighten them, Chris?" Christine regarded him levelly.
"I did...at first." You don't want to know how we met or what I did right before their eyes, lady. Trust me on that.
"But not any more, right? So they're probably tougher than you give them credit for." As naturally as if they were friends of twenty years' standing, his conqueror wrapped an arm around his shoulders and shepherded him toward his host. Conway rose as they approached, his eyes a question focused not on Chris but on Christine. She nodded.
"He's got balls, Kevin. If his girls are half as solid, it'll be no problem at all."
Conway's eyes flicked at once to Chris's. "Would you come back upstairs with me for a bit, Chris? There are a few details I'd like to iron out before we proceed."
Chris nodded. Christine gave him a quick squeeze.
"I'll change and join you later."
"How are your small-arms skills, Chris?" Conway said.
Chris shrugged. "Making them, maintaining them, or using them?"
"Never mind." Conway pulled his revolver from his holster and passed it across the desk, grip first. "Safety's on." Chris took it and weighed it in his hand.
"Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, double action revolver. One of the most reliable wheelguns ever made. Two inch barrel, so don't get into it with a sniper." He passed it back. "I prefer a Colt automatic, but for close quarters work the Smith is as good as they come."
Conway returned the revolver to its place at his hip. "Would you be averse to carrying one?"
"Why? I have two M1911s and a Browning nine millimeter that suit me fine."
"Because all my men carry them."
"What? I didn't --"
"I did. I'm recruiting. You. Today. Right now."
Chris blinked and stared hard at Conway. The security chief seemed perfectly serious.
"You're aware that I have a job, right?"
Conway nodded. "Got a problem with having two?"
"But why?"
"I have my reasons. I hate to let a good man get away. Integral's customer list has been growing fast, and I don't doubt that it will continue to do so." Conway's mouth drew thin. "I might not need senior personnel at this very instant, but I'm sure in a year I'll have enough work to keep two more watch commanders fully occupied, so why not stock up now and avoid the rush?" Conway's grin turned naughty. "And there's this: if you work for me, then you didn't hire me, and you certainly don't supervise me. You'd go where I tell you and do as I order. Right, Lieutenant Chase?"
"Uh, yes, sir."
Conway rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. "There he goes with the 'sir' again. Look, Chris, whether you join my shop or not, I'm Kevin. Anyway, what I plan to do is lease you back to Iverson, to do exactly what you're doing for him now, for the next year at least. It'll cost him exactly the salary you're already getting, so he loses nothing. It'll cost me a few bucks, but I can stand it. Maybe not that much, considering that I can deduct the cost of your family's training and protection as a legitimate business expense. By the way, what does he pay you?"
"Seventy, plus four into my 401(K) every year."
"My watch commanders get eighty, and I match their 401(K) contributions dollar for dollar." Conway rose and stuck out his hand. "Don't worry, you'll earn it. Welcome aboard, Lieutenant."
Chris rose shakily and took it. "Thank you, si -- Kevin. Can I ask a question?"
"Shoot."
"The lady downstairs in the gym? Christine?"
"Yes?"
"Could she do that to you?"
"In her sleep, Chris. In her sleep." Conway gestured toward the door. "Come on, let's get you on the payroll and introduce you to the rest of the crew. Then comes the hard part."
"Hm?"
"Telling Todd Iverson that you've changed jobs." A cloud passed over Conway's face. "I'd better come with you for that. He won't like it, you know."
"No," Chris said. "He won't."
Todd Iverson was not pleased. He glared at Conway as if the two had a long history of unpleasantness. When he swung the glare to shine on Chris, it took a conscious effort not to flinch visibly.
"You were underpaying him, you know," Conway said.
"Not for what he was doing," Iverson growled.
Chris kept his lips clamped together. Every Navy man knew the hazards of inserting oneself into a pissing contest between brass hats. In a contest between superior officers, do your best imitation of wallpaper.
"Todd," Kevin said, "you can have him back for at least the next year, and for no more than you're paying him now." He showed no tension at all. "You just have to pay it to me. And you don't have to worry that his attention will be split. Arcologics will be his sole responsibility for at least one year from this date. You have my word."
Iverson appeared unmollified. "I'm supposed to use a contractor as my Director of Security? Someone whose ultimate loyalty is outside the corporation? Are you practicing your lunacy act, or is this some sort of very poorly conceived joke?"
Conway merely shrugged.
Iverson's brown eyes bored into Chris's own. "Do you realize," he said in a tone that sang with fury, "that you'll be the first Arcologics employee ever to leave my service? Do you have the slightest idea what that will say to the rest of my staff? To my personnel director? To my wife?"
"Todd," Chris said as quietly as he could, "I'm not really leaving. Not unless you want me to. Kevin is serious. I wouldn't have accepted his offer otherwise."
Iverson's expression didn't soften. "He's given me no guarantees I can trust."
"Now hold on a minute," Conway said. "Are you saying you don't think my word is good?"
Iverson glanced at him and sneered, as if there ought to be no need to reply to a statement that bizarre. For the first time, Chris saw blood rise into Conway's face.
"Todd, I asked you a question."
"I don't particularly care," Iverson said, "whether your word is good. I don't particularly care for you, or your company, or your easy way with my employees. I don't particularly care who your customers are, or how well you perform for them. To me you're just one more Irish thug, except that you've managed to turn your thuggery into a comfortable living. And I don't care whether hearing that makes you burst a blood vessel. In fact, I rather wish it would. You've made your pitch, and your score. You've ruptured my security and forced me to replace a man I thought I could rely on. But you'll do no more at my expense. Now get out of my office."
Anger crackled through the air. Chris regarded his former employer's set features and his new one's boiled-ham color and wondered whether it would fall to him to keep them from killing one another.
If we were anywhere but Todd's office, these two would be settling their differences the old-fashioned way.
Presently Conway said. "As you prefer, Mr. Iverson. We 'Irish thugs' might not all be geniuses, but we have our place in the world. Like as not you'll find that out the hard way."
"Are you threatening me, Conway?" Iverson screeched.
Conway shook his head. "No, Iverson, I'm doing something worse. I'm throwing you on your own resources. Lieutenant Chase is my responsibility now. I'm sure I'll find enough to keep him fully occupied." He bared his teeth. "Best of luck with your personnel search."
As they entered the stairwell, Chris murmured, "He's a very good man, Kevin."
Conway glanced at Chris without expression. "I've known better."
They descended the stairs, nodded to the security guard at the front desk, and walked straight into the waiting arms of Sonia Petievich, Hassan Khaldoun, and half the uniforms of the Onteora County First Precinct.
Hassan Khaldoun propped his enormous bulk on his knuckles and glared at Chris and Conway in turn. "You are aware," he said, "that it's a felony to conceal evidence of a felony."
Neither Chris nor Conway spoke.
"Well?" Khaldoun barked.
"Are you ready to charge us with something, Hassan?" Conway said pleasantly. "Because my patience with you is pretty close to bottoming out."
Alarm bells rang in Chris's head. They were in a basement interrogation room, with whitewashed cinderblock walls and a door that could only be unlocked from outside. They'd been disarmed upon apprehension; Khaldoun's sidearm was prominent at his hip. If Conway was about to make a play, he could hardly have picked a less promising situation.
Khaldoun's hot black eyes scraped across their faces like twin lasers. Chris could see his neck swelling. Badness was imminent.
"Do you think," Khaldoun said in a whisper that crackled with rage, "that I'd have any real trouble coming up with a reason to keep you as long as I wished?"
"Actually," Conway said, "I do." He pointed to the clock on the wall. "We've now been in your custody for two hours and thirty-five minutes. My last reported location was the Arcologics offices on Grand Street, where I spent a little more than an hour. My people expect me to call in no less frequently than once every four hours. So if you don't voluntarily release us pretty damned quick, you're going to have all of Integral Security climbing down your collar in about a discounted hour. They have standing orders to use all necessary force in defense of any one of their own. Not long ago, one of my new hires asked me what 'all necessary force' might entail. I told him it meant to go Biblical on whoever's on the other side. You know, slay and spare not. Are you ready for that, Deputy Chief Khaldoun?"
The policeman bared his teeth. Conway smiled broadly and slumped into a posture of arrogant disdain.
"Go ahead, asshole. Try me and see. The uniforms upstairs would love to have a bloodbath to blame on you. Especially since your co-religionists have been placed out of bounds for investigation, never mind actual law enforcement, ever since you made captain. Hell, they might even side with my guys."
The two men's gazes were so tightly locked that nothing could separate them. Conway merely smiled his superior, try-me smile. Khaldoun was edging near to apoplexy.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Khaldoun growled.
"You know it, Hassan." Conway rose from his seat and stretched elaborately. "So unless you want your personalized Armageddon delivered giftwrapped, C.O.D., and real soon now, speak a nice, unambiguous release order into that little mike on the wall behind you. Otherwise, I don't think you'll be able to avert it."
The contest of gazes went on for several seconds longer. Chris found himself wondering whether he was still ready, willing, and able to kill with his bare hands, in cold blood.
I still have the ability. Do I have the will? I'm in the hands of forces I once swore to defend with my life.
Khaldoun yielded. He muttered a release-without-conditions command into the mike mounted on the wall, waited for the door to open, and exited the room without another word.
Chris and Conway rose as a pair of uniforms entered. "Well, gentlemen?" Conway said. "Was there something else?"
One of them said, "We're here to escort you out of the building."
Conway frowned. "Nice of you, but we have to reclaim our property first."
"I'm afraid not, sir," the uniform said in a monotone. "We're under orders to convey you directly to the street, no stops in between." His hand drifted toward his sidearm.
Conway turned toward Chris with a wave and a look of exasperation. Chris barely caught the flicker of his left eyelid. He returned it.
Three seconds later, the two cops were coughing their lungs out on the floor at their feet. Conway hefted the German automatic he'd taken from his opponent, scowled, and said, "Trash. Guaranteed to jam when you need it most. Give me an S&W any day."
Chris nodded, pulled the clip from the gun he'd taken from his target, and flipped the gun into the far corner. Conway did the same.
"Shall we get back to work, Lieutenant?"
"Of course, si -- Kevin."
Conway flipped a mock salute at the two cops writhing on the floor as they departed.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
A Change Of Scene
(From the Onteora Canon. We’ve all heard the cliched phrase “saved by the love of a good woman.” People tend to sneer at it these days, what with the rise of gender-war feminism and political correctness. I don’t. Moreover, I don’t think the person so saved necessarily has to be a man. Nor does the “saving” have to be a one-way transaction.
Meg and Emil also appear in “A For Effort,” to which this is a sequel of sorts.)
The slicing pain in her back as she flopped against the curbstone jolted Frederica Baskin partway back to consciousness. She became sequentially aware of the rough macadam against her bare legs, the damp grass against her cheek, the lump of her purse beneath her, and the early spring wind that puffed out her satin blouse and gusted up her short leather skirt. She writhed weakly against the chill invasions, eyes closed, all but deaf to the sound of the unmuffled engine receding in the distance.
It was some time before she regained enough awareness of her surroundings to do anything but stumble about the borderland of oblivion. In a deep corner of her mind she knew she'd been drugged and abused, but the lingering effects of the drug, whatever it was, withheld the full impact of whatever pain there was to feel.
Her senses returned slowly. There was a foul taste in her mouth, bitter and salty. Her nether parts ached from violation. In her nostrils lingered the cloying acridity of dense smoke and an after-hint of male musk, that the sharp, clean night air only slowly dispelled.
She opened her eyes to find herself lying across the curb of Helmsford Avenue, on the western edge of Onteora. It was full night.
She hoisted herself painfully off the street and looked about. No one else was present. The streetlights shone down on a city asleep. The only sound was the thin yowling of a feral cat in search of a mate.
She swore, struggled to her feet, and shook herself against the April cold. At least she still had her purse and shoes.
She was far from her Oakleigh apartment. There were no businesses open that she could see. For all her bravado, she wouldn't smash an alarmed window just to spend the night in a warm cell.
She swayed a little on her stiletto heels, balance not yet fully regained, and staggered out of the city, toward the shadowed belt of detached homes and tree-lined streets that beckoned from the west.
There were no lights on in any of the houses she passed. No car passed her on the silent streets. It had to be past midnight, when only such as she were up and about and plying their trades.
Lurching about in the darkness, she caught a heel in a crack in the walk and fell against a large sign mounted on the lawn of what looked to be a church.
| Our Lady Of The Pines R.C. Church |
| Sunday Masses at 7, 8, 9 and 10AM |
| Come Unto Him |
| All Ye That Labor |
From the ache in her loins, she'd been laboring a lot lately, even if the work was unpaid and unremembered.
With that thought, the details of the night just past flooded back.
Her Saturday evening had started uneventfully. Unusually, she'd had no clients booked, and had been about to settle in with a trash romance and a bowl of popcorn when the phone rang. The call was from a fraternity of the local state college campus. Six of the boys had taken up a collection and wanted to buy a little fun. Six of them. No rough stuff, the caller promised. She said six hundred, and the caller had agreed without argument. He'd given her an address, and she'd rung off without further thought. Ten minutes later she was in her party clothes and speeding toward the frat house.
They welcomed her into a den filled with worn but comfortable-looking furniture and decked with sports trophies. A long, low table sported an array of finger foods and a large bowl of punch. She accepted her fee, grabbed a handful of the nibble bait and a paper cup full of punch, and sat between two of her husky young hosts. They smiled broadly and told her to relax.
Relaxation proved to be involuntary. The punch was spiked with something stronger than alcohol.
She remembered her incredulity. Why drug her? She was a paid performer. For the fee she'd quoted, she'd have given them any thrill they could imagine. But the thought dissolved into blackness as she succumbed to whatever they'd slipped her. Her last memory prior to waking up in the street was of rough hands pulling up her skirt.
One more occupational hazard of a woman for hire.
Out of a vague sense of obligation to her trade, she opened her purse and peered inside. Her wallet nestled among her brushes and cosmetics. To her considerable surprise, she found a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills within it.
They drugged me, but they didn't rob me. Too weird.
She stumbled up the church walk, paused before the tall double doors, and put her hand to the latch. It was unlocked.
The interior of the church was dim. On each of two tables that flanked the altar stage burned a sparse line of candles set in red glass jars, teasing random flashes of color from the tall stained glass panes nearby. Behind the altar burned a Presence lamp shaped like a conventionalized heart. The ruddy light illuminated a single human figure, a girl about Freddi's age, sitting motionless in a pew near the center of the nave.
Freddi sidled up to the girl and looked her over as unobtrusively as she could.
The girl was short, fresh faced, and petitely beautiful. Her clothes were stylish without being flashy. Her lush brown hair bobbed fetchingly around her face. She had the sort of understated, unprovocative glamor that subtly commands the attention of men. She sat perfectly upright, but was so still that Freddi took her for sleeping, until she spied the girl's open, alert eyes. Those eyes were fixed on the altar. Now and then their lids would flutter closed, but their owner showed no other sign of life.
The eyes turned to engage Freddi's own.
Freddi repressed the impulse to cringe away. There was nothing threatening in the girl's expression. She gazed at Freddi for a moment, smiled formally, and went back to staring at the altar without speaking. It was as bare an acknowledgement of another person's presence as Freddi could imagine.
"What..." Freddi's voice caught in her throat. "What are you watching for?"
The girl turned toward her again, expression still pleasant but a hint of puzzlement in her eyes. "Nothing." This time, she didn't turn away.
Uncertain of her ground, Freddi slid down the pew, stopped and sat on the wooden bench with about a yard between them. The other girl didn't move or speak.
"You got nowhere else to go?"
The girl smiled. "Not quite. I was thinking about some things." She held out her hand. "I'm Meg."
Freddi took it. "I'm Freddi. You do a lot of thinking here?"
Meg shook her head. "It's only my second time here." She half-turned to face Freddi. "My boyfriend popped the question day before yesterday. He's Catholic, I'm not. I've been wondering whether we'd have any problems because of it."
"Is he really into it?"
A moment of silence flowed past.
"Yes," Meg said. "He is. He said it saved his life."
"Gonna...what do they call it...convert?"
Meg's lips compressed. "That's what I was thinking about. Do you have any kids?"
Freddi snorted a laugh before she could think. "No, girls in my...no, I don't. Why?"
Meg turned a little away and let her head droop. "I don't know if it would be fair to our kids for us not to have the same religion."
"What're you, then?"
"Nothing much. I was raised Jewish, but I never paid much attention to it." There was a hint of pain beneath Meg's conversational tone.
Freddi started to speak again, halted herself.
"Say, you got a car?"
Meg looked at her again. "Yes, why?"
"'Cause I could use a lift and you look like you could use a cup of coffee. How about it?"
Meg's expression went blank. Her gaze flicked briefly to the Presence lamp, then back to Freddi. She rose, picked up a shearling coat from the pew beside her, and slipped it on.
"Okay."
They had the Idle Hours Diner almost to themselves. At the counter, a middle-aged man in a beige trench coat hunched over a steaming cup. Two waitresses stood facing one another behind the counter, chatting and waving their hands. At long intervals the headlights of a car would swerve around the corner on which the diner sat, then recede into the blackness of Forslund Drive.
Meg sipped at her coffee. "So what had you out so late?"
"I...ah, a little business."
Meg's eyes traveled swiftly over Freddi's attire. "I see."
Freddi suppressed the urge to explain.
"Do you usually go to church after...business?"
Freddi flushed. "No, it's just...hey, look, it's a tough trade, you know? I got blindsided tonight. They tossed me out in front of that church, near enough, and I'm not exactly dressed for the weather, so..."
Meg's expression of grave interest was unchanged.
" 'They,' you said?"
Freddi nodded.
"So you're not a Catholic, then."
Freddi snorted. "About as much as you."
Meg's eyes darkened. "Maybe not. It's a pretty set of ideas."
Freddi snorted again. "A lot of stupid rules."
"Not that many, and not that stupid."
"You sound like you're gonna take the plunge."
Meg's mouth tightened. "I might."
"What's stopping you?"
"Faith."
"Hm?"
"I don't know if I have it." Meg set down her cup and sat back in the booth. "There's more to being a Catholic than just following the rules. You have to believe some stuff I'm not sure I can accept."
"Like God and Satan and heaven and hell?"
Meg grinned crookedly. "Among other things."
"That's the part I could never get." Freddi leaned forward and planted her forearms on the table. "Okay, let's say you learn all the rules and you think they're just great. Why do you have to believe all that stuff about Jesus and Mary and so on? What's the point? You're here, they're not, you live and you die and...and whatever comes next is gonna happen no matter what you believe. How does faith make it any better...or worse?"
Meg didn't answer at once. She looked down at her folded hands, then off into the darkness beyond their window.
"I don't know, Freddi. I'm pretty smart. I know that what you believe has no effect on what is. You can believe in unicorns, or dragons, or God all you want, and if there are no unicorns, or dragons, or...or God, there still won't be any. But maybe that's the important part. Most people abide by the rules even if they don't believe in God. I always have. But there's an empty space inside me I can't fill just by saying, hey, I'm a good person, I do unto others as I'd have them do unto me, end of story, cut to commercial." Her eyes returned to rest on Freddi's with an unusual gravity. "Emil doesn't have that space. He did, once. He said it was faith that taught him how to fill it."
"Emil's your guy?"
Meg nodded.
Just one more reason to take their money, bang 'em, and catch a cab home.
"Sounds like it's gonna matter, one way or the other. Hey, how old is he?"
"Thirty-five."
Freddi frowned. The fresh-faced young beauty across from her couldn't be nearly that old. "This'd be the second time around for him?"
Meg nodded. "His first wife died in a plane crash."
"Ouch."
"Yeah."
They sat in silence for a long interval. Presently Meg said, "Well, I should try to get some sleep." She dropped a dollar bill on the table and rose. "Would you like to visit with me for the night? I'd like it very much."
Freddi's mouth dropped open. "Hey, I'm not -- wait a second. I've got a place of my own, you know?"
Meg nodded. "I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. I just thought you might like some company. Someone to have breakfast with. I'll drive you to your place if you'd rather be alone, but I'd really like it if you'd come spend the night with me."
Freddi hunched forward against a sudden, inexplicable pain.
"Freddi? Are you okay?"
"Yeah." She straightened up carefully and did her best to smile. "It sounds kinda fun. You a good cook?"
Meg shrugged. "Not terribly, but what does that matter? We usually have Sunday breakfast here."
We? "Does your guy live with you?"
Meg shook her head.
"Okay, let's boogie."
Meg's apartment was in a garden apartment colony in Foxwood. It was spacious and cool, sparsely furnished and excessively neat. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all of them heavy with hardcover volumes. There was no television. It looked much too big for a young single woman, as if it had been rented for a larger group of occupants that had unaccountably failed to appear.
Freddi stood just inside the door and waited. Meg tossed her purse and coat onto the little sofa and disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of running water followed.
"You cooking something?" Freddi said.
"Just tea," came the reply. "I like a cup of tea before I go to bed. Want one? It's decaffeinated."
"Uh, sure."
Freddi went to the nearest of the bookshelves and perused the titles. Most of them were about electronics. There were a scattering of texts on philosophy and history, and a bare handful of paperback novels.
This chick's a heavyweight. A looker like her! Go figure.
Presently Meg came back with a pair of large mugs that trailed steam behind her. She offered one to Freddi and gestured her toward the sofa. Freddi sat and sipped at her mug. It was a delicately minty brew, mildly sweet and gently soothing, the sort of thing one might use to relieve a minor headache.
"This where I'm gonna sleep?" She tested the springiness of the sofa with her free hand. It resisted nicely.
Meg shook her head. "No, I have a guest room with a real bed. You wouldn't want to sleep out here anyway. Feel the draft from the door?"
No. "Uh, yeah."
A few moments' silence passed before Meg said, "So tell me about your life."
"Huh?"
Meg leaned forward, her face suddenly filled with intensity.
"Please? I know you've, uh, been around. I haven't. What's it like to, uh..."
Freddi locked eyes with her hostess. The young woman was deeply flushed, as embarrassed as she was curious.
"Freddi," Meg forced out, "Could you please tell me a little about the way it is when you...let yourself get loose?" Her voice sank still further. "Emil's the only man I've ever...been with."
The pain that had surged in Freddi's chest at the church returned at doubled force.
"How..." Her voice broke. "How can you..."
Her tears burst forth as she slumped into Meg's waiting arms.
Meg seemed to know what she was about, so when her hostess led Freddi to a bedroom, told her to disrobe and climb into bed, she did so. Meg did the same, quenched the light, slipped under the covers and beckoned Freddi into her arms. Freddi hesitated only a moment.
"I haven't held somebody this way in a long time," Freddi murmured. Meg's body was a warm velvet presence against hers.
"Hm?" Meg stroked Freddi's hair and pulled her snugly against her.
"You know. No sex."
Meg grinned. "Same here."
"Huh? What about...?"
"He's only slept here once." Meg squirmed onto her side and faced Freddi. "Our first night together. It was nice, but the next morning, we practically fell over one another with excuses about why it shouldn't happen again."
"But you still...do it, don't you?"
Meg nodded. "Not often, but yes, we do. Most of our time together is pretty sedate. He's a very quiet sort." She paused. "So am I, really."
Freddi mused in the warmth and darkness.
"You think it's gonna work?"
"Marriage? Sure, why not? We love each other, we want to be together, we both want the usual stuff. Why shouldn't it work?"
"Dunno." Freddi pondered. "I've got a lot of married customers. If it's so great, why do they need me?"
"Need might be the wrong word, Freddi."
"Yeah."
Meg pulled Freddi snugly against her again. "Maybe it's the right one. I don't know. I'm twenty-five years old and barely out on my own. What do I know about what happens to a couple after a few years have gone by? Women do turn nasty, sometimes. Hell, men do too."
"What about...your folks?"
Freddi felt Meg's mouth rise in a grin. "The ultimate married couple. He's an accountant and estate planner, she's a homemaker and charity organizer. They live in Harrison, in northern Westchester. He 'leaves for work' by walking down the hall to his office. He 'comes home' at exactly five-thirty every evening. They eat every meal together, watch TV together, go grocery shopping together, the works. And every one of their neighbors is the same. There hasn't been a divorce in that town for about a million years. It's probably against the zoning ordinances."
"Do you think..."
Meg squeezed her gently. "Think what, Freddi?"
Freddi had to force it out. "Think your pop ever did business with someone like me?"
Silence elongated between them.
"I doubt it," Meg said at last. "But it's not something I'm really hot to think about."
Or talk about, right, babe?
"What about...Emil?"
Meg chuckled. "Not a chance. That's one I don't have to research."
"You really that sure of him?"
"Yup. And when you meet him, you'll be just as sure."
"Huh? When I meet him?"
"Yeah, he'll be here for breakfast. Freddi, this is a pretty big bed, but if you think you'd be more comfortable in the guest room --"
"No!" Freddi's arms tightened involuntarily around Meg, squeezing a gasp of surprise from her. "Uh, no, this is really nice. I mean you're, uh, oh hell, let's not talk about it, okay?" Unaccountably, she felt her tears rise for the second time that night.
Meg's hands rose to cup Freddi's cheeks. Even in the darkness, Freddi could see the searching intensity of the young woman's gaze.
"Freddi," Meg murmured, "I'm not exiling you, and I'm not going anywhere. Even if we've only known each other for a couple of hours, I'm your friend, and I'm going to remain your friend. I practically begged you to stay here tonight, I put you in my bed and climbed in after you, and you've got my naked body in your arms right now. I'll be here when you wake up. I'll be here when you get out of the shower. I'll be holding your hand when Emil comes through the door. Whatever he says, and I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut he doesn't say one word, I'll still be your friend. Will you please believe that?"
Freddi sniffled.
"Please?"
"Okay."
Meg smiled. "Turn around."
Freddi flipped onto her right side. Meg spooned in behind her, one arm curled around her waist. "Good night, dear."
"G'night."
Sleep was upon her at once.
They awoke to strong April sunlight and immediately started giggling like children. Unable to decide who should shower first, they showered together, giggling and squealing all the while. Freddi was amazed at the thickness of Meg's hair. It seemed to require a pound of shampoo to lather it properly and half an hour to rinse it out. When they'd toweled off, Meg cast a disapproving eye at Freddi's nails and proclaimed that manicures and pedicures would be their next undertaking.
"Okay, where do you go?" Freddi asked.
Meg frowned. "Don't be silly. I'll do you myself. Can I trust you to do me?"
"Uh, sure."
Minutes later Freddi found herself in the kitchenette, her feet in Meg's lap trapped in foam toe spreaders. Meg labored over her with a craftsman's concentration, filing the edges of her nails to a perfect smoothness and buffing away her calluses before she reached for her polish. Freddi held completely still, wondering not for the first time if she were imagining the whole experience. When her toenails were finished, Meg went straight on to her fingernails, and with the same degree of care and skill.
Freddi's nails were just barely dry when there came a knock at the door. Meg scampered to answer it, revealing a tall, huskily built young man wearing a navy blue suit and a shy smile. Meg took his hand and pulled him inside. His eyes lit on Freddi and his forehead crinkled.
"Freddi, this is my fiance, Emil Deukmeijian. Emil, I'd like you to meet my friend Freddi Baskin. Careful of her nails, Emil, I just did them."
Freddi rose and extended her hand. Emil took it in a careful clasp and murmured a pleasantry.
"Freddi will be coming to church with us," Meg said.
I will?
"Breakfast too, I hope?" Emil said. His voice was deep and pleasant.
"Of course," Meg answered for her.
"Where do you know my sweetie from, Freddi?" Emil asked.
Freddi opened her mouth but Meg leaped in first. "We have to get dressed and get to Mass, Emil. Church first, then breakfast, then small talk." She grabbed for Freddi's hand. "Come on, Freddi."
Freddi was five inches taller than Meg, but the two of them were close enough in proportions that one of Meg's skirt suits fit her adequately well. Her leopard-pattern stilettos didn't go with the navy blue ensemble, but there was nothing to be done about it. Presently they were in Emil's car, on their way back to Our Lady of the Pines.
The church was almost full when they arrived. Emil steered them to a back-corner pew where no one else was sitting. They'd just gotten settled when the service began.
Freddi expected the service to be incomprehensible and tedious, but in truth it flowed along briskly. She understood more of it than she expected. The priest's homily, on the inner significance of forgiveness, was fresh and appealing. When the communion procession began, Emil rose to join it, leaving the two women alone in the pew.
"What are they doing?" Freddi whispered to Meg.
"Taking communion."
"What's that?"
"Part of the faith. The priest supposedly turns the wafers into the body of Christ, and the wine into his blood. It's a reenactment of the Last Supper."
"Before they killed him, you mean?"
Meg nodded.
"Why aren't you doing it?"
"I'm not..." Meg's voice caught. "...one of the family yet."
"Do you think..."
Meg glanced sideways at her. "What?"
"Never mind."
Millions of people do this every Sunday. Some do it even more often. Why? How can they believe it's about anything real? Even that it really happened? Just because it's written in an old book?
Emil returned and sank to his knees beside her, head bowed over his folded hands.
How could Meg buy into it? She's as smart as they come. Emil, too, probably, or he wouldn't have bagged her, and he believes it already! What do they get out of it? What does it have to do with anything real? What's the deal here?
What happened then, Freddi could never thereafter describe. It was an entirely interior event, without the slightest of external consequences, yet it consumed and shook her like no orgasm she'd ever had.
In a space of time too fleeting to be measured or named, she was overcome by a sense of transcendence, as if her body had exploded to engulf the entire universe. Beyond stood a Presence vaster than vast, that looked down upon Creation as a father might look upon his newborn child. Each iota of its substance, and all the laws that governed its journey through time, had been formed in His thought and cast forth by His will. Though it blended sorrow and splendor, pleasure and pain, jubilation and tears in equal measure, all of it was exactly as He intended; there was no waste. He saw it all, named its name, and pronounced it good.
Including her.
"Freddi?"
She heard her name as if it bore no relation to her whatsoever.
"Freddi...?" Meg's hand closed upon her shoulder.
She shook herself, cognizant once again of her surroundings. The vision had sent her to her knees. Emil and Meg had risen and were peering down at her in some concern. The church was almost empty.
She rose awkwardly, uncertain of her balance. Meg took her by the hand and led her out of the church.
They were back at the garden apartment complex before she could speak again. Emil, apparently aware that the two of them needed some time without him, kissed Meg and told her he'd call that evening. They got out and hurried up the stairs.
When Meg had closed and locked the door behind them, she pulled Freddi down onto the sofa, made a ball of their four hands, and whispered, "What happened to you?"
"I don't know." Freddi groped for a purchase on the vision, tried to haul it back into clarity, but to no avail. "You...didn't see it?"
"See what?"
Freddi started to speak, halted herself, and thought furiously.
It's not supposed to be obvious. Not the faith part. If it were obvious, it wouldn't be worth anything. Maybe I got it because I'm not smart. Maybe the guys who are smart enough to work it out for themselves never get a shot like this one.
Meg might never get one.
You got something in mind for me, God?
"I don't know, babe. Probably I just haven't had enough sleep." Freddi did her best to grin. "Or maybe it was all that nail polish. People get high on the fumes sometimes, don't they?"
Meg winced. "You gave us a fright. Sure you're okay?"
Freddi nodded, rose, and stretched out the muscles in her lower back. "Yeah. Got anything planned for your afternoon? Wait, we haven't had breakfast yet. Hungry?"
Meg nodded, her face still tense with uncertainty.
"Then let's get some. My treat. Think that diner is still open?"
"It's always open. Like the church."
Freddi swallowed. "Yeah."
A dour-faced waitress brought them corned beef, scrambled eggs, and hot coffee. Freddi watched her move away before picking up her fork. Meg was already digging in.
Freddi picked at her hash, uncertain how she should frame her announcement.
"I'm gonna stop hooking."
Meg looked up, a forkful of hash halfway to her lips. "Well, good. Because of last night?"
Freddi nodded.
"But do you have another line?"
Freddi shrugged. "I've got a few bucks to tide me over while I look for one."
"Ever done any data entry?"
"What's that?"
"A lot of typing, mostly. My company has a training program. I could probably get you in."
"Sounds good. Thanks! But I'll bet the money isn't much."
Meg grimaced. "Bull's-eye."
"So I'm gonna have to cut expenses. Find a roommate, maybe."
Meg lost all expression.
"Hey, what'd I say? You okay?"
"Never better," Meg said. Her tone was completely without affect, almost electronically flat. "Are you...attached to your apartment?"
Freddi felt a thrill wash through her. She closed her eyes briefly and waited until it had passed.
"It's a dump. I don't spend a lot of time there with my eyes open, you know?"
"Freddi..." Meg looked away. "I do have a spare bedroom."
Freddi said nothing.
"I used to have a roommate. She moved out about two years ago."
"When you started seeing Emil?"
Meg nodded. "I've been kind of lonely."
You smart gals usually are.
"What about Emil?"
"Not for at least a year. Neither of us wants to go fast."
"Okay. What's the rent?"
"For you? Nothing until you're working again."
"Again?"
Meg grinned. "Let's not split hairs. Anyway, would you like to room with me for a year or two? I think I'd enjoy your company. And you might enjoy a change of scene."
I already have, babe.
"You're on. Just one thing, though."
"Hm?"
"When we go to church on Sundays --"
"You want to go back?"
Freddi nodded. "Could it be just you and me for a while? Or do you think Emil will make a stink about it?"
Meg's mouth had fallen open. "I...wasn't sure I wanted to keep going myself. Okay, sure. But why?"
Freddi scowled. "Some of the things the priest said this morning. I've got a lot of forgiving to do. And a lot of learning. I've got this feeling there's gonna be a lot of, you know, girl stuff. I'd like us to do it together, if you're into it."
There was silence between them for a long moment. Meg's beautiful face, soft and round as a medieval portrait of the Madonna, slowly warmed to a brilliant smile.
"I think I am. So when do you want to move in?"
Freddi snorted laughter. "Let's finish breakfast first. Say, about Emil?"
"Hm?"
"Does he have any nice friends?"
"Ha!"
