Fiction
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Vocations
(I’ve received a large amount of email about the stories in the Short Fiction section. It’s always good to receive such notes, even when they’re critical rather than complimentary; it means 1) that the stories are being read, and 2) that they’ve “touched a nerve.” The distribution, however, of mail-over-specific-stories is sometimes a source of bafflement. I wouldn’t have expected so many to address this one, or this one.
There appears to be a hunger among Eternity Road readers for more about Helen and Martine, in particular. I must admit, I have a great affection for my characters and any excuse is good enough for me to return to them. But I think it important to avoid telling the same story over and over, so…well, judge for yourself.
Gentle erotica set in Onteora County—and more.)
"Helen..." Martine scanned the little space quickly. Whatever her mentor saw in it had yet to register on her. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
The older woman raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. "Isn't it a bit late for second thoughts, dear?"
"No...well, maybe." The surrounding area was beautiful, open and lushly green, but the city was quiet, far quieter than Los Angeles. It wasn't exactly farm country, but it bore little resemblance to the milieu in which her mentor had recruited her and honed her skills. The great majority of the buildings were one or two storeys. The streets were traveled, but not full or nearly so. Most of the men were in overalls or blue jeans. The women they'd passed on the streets simply didn't look like the sort who'd seek the services of a specialist of her sort. "Where will our clientele come from?"
"Just set up as close as possible to how we were set up in California and wait to be noticed," Helen said. "Surely you're not worried about money?"
"No...no." Martine tried to imagine the rows of displays, the racks of goods, familiar from their store in Los Angeles. It was hard; the lighting, the differences in geometry, and the lack of ambient noise from the street beyond worked against her. The back of the store, just then partitioned off by a plain drywall but ultimately to be concealed by a wall of mirrors, was impossible to imagine set up as Naughty But Nice was arranged. She grimaced briefly and strove to quell her misgivings.
Helen laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You have nothing to fear, dear. Remember, we're not here to turn a monetary profit. We are called to this work. If that which we serve decrees that you be here, then here you must be." She smiled. "Just do what you've trained to do...what you did so well in Los Angeles. Do it with skill, pride, and joy. My confidence in you is boundless. One word of advice?"
Martine nodded vigorously.
"Whenever you're open, always have the tea service ready. And the cakes."
"I will." Impulsively, Martine whirled and threw her arms around the older woman. "I'm going to miss you."
Helen squeezed her and stroked her short cap of shiny black hair. "I'm never more than half a day away, dear. I'll be here whenever you truly need me."
Martine repressed a shiver. "I hope so."
Another squeeze. "Count on it."
Maureen Harkness quickly made the Sign of the Cross and started to turn toward her husband, but Chris had already turned away and pulled the blanket to his chin. She tensed, thought briefly about importuning him, and relaxed with a silent sigh. Two tears leaked down her face in the darkness.
His goodness is killing me.
Fully aware of her vaginitis, Chris would not, as he put it, impose himself on her physically. He loved her too much to cause her pain for his own pleasure.
Maureen had come to miss that pain more than life itself.
Lord, how do I cope? He's the best man You ever put on this earth. I love him beyond all reason. Amanda, too. I could never have believed in his degree of bravery or integrity before I saw them with my own eyes. And I can't convince him that, despite my problems, I want him still, that having him in my body means more to me than anything else in this world. What must I do?
She feared it was having an effect on Chris that he wouldn't discuss. He'd become ever quieter since their last attempted coitus. There was a new tone of resignation in his carriage and his dealings with others. That morning he'd politely asked a garbageman not to toss their cans into the street. The lout flipped him off without eliciting a reaction, much less a penalty for his cheek.
His calling was to be a warrior in service to freedom and justice. Has my lessening as a woman lessened him as well?
She held herself very still, careful not to disturb Chris's incipient slumbers.
Guide me, Lord. Help me to find a way out of this impasse. But if that's not to be, if our marriage is to be without fleshly coitus from now on, help me to accept it with patience and bear it with unfailing love. Grant me Your grace.
She turned onto her side and closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. But before she drifted off, a faint signal, like something heard from across the sea and over the horizon beyond, seemed to impinge on her semiconscious mind.
Ask Christine.
Maureen edged tentatively into the Integral Security gymnasium, mindful of the irregularity. Interrupting a training session in progress simply wasn't done. Kevin Conway, Integral's owner-proprietor, took a dim view of it. She'd likely hear about it from her husband, too.
As she rounded the turn into the martial-arts room, she collided frontally with Patricia Larson. The young patrolwoman seemed in a hurry to get to wherever she was going. The two women turned faces red with embarrassment on one another, each muttered a low apology, and Larson continued away at a fast trot.
Lord, help me to forgive her. Not to hold it against her that she wants what I have. Had.
Christine hoisted herself out of her seat as Maureen scampered across the exercise mats. She smiled widely and spread her arms, and they embraced.
"Good to see you, babe," Christine said. "Are you back on the schedule again?"
Maureen looked up at the younger woman and shook her head. "I'd like to be, though. Do you have an empty slot I could fill?"
Christine's smile grew wider still. "I'll make one. Just pick a time and I'll reserve it for you. Anyone who complains can fight for it."
"Me?"
The trainer shook her head. "Me!"
Maureen pulled her close again, rested her cheek against the cushion of Christine's bosom, luxuriated in the welcome there.
Lord, what comfort there is in holding this girl! So warm, so gifted, and so beautiful! Feeling her against me is almost as good as holding Chris. Truly, You never made two things the same. All praise to You!
Presently they sat, Maureen's hands enfolded in Christine's. All it took was for Christine to say, "So how have you been?" and though Maureen had never willed it, the whole of her agony poured forth uncensored.
It was several minutes before she ran down. When she did, she slumped forward, breathless and exhausted, ready to collapse into Christine's arms.
The trainer didn't speak for nearly a minute. She chewed her lips, stroked the backs of Maureen's hands with her thumbs, glanced randomly around the gymnasium, and finally gave a great sigh.
"We have to come at this from the beginning," Christine said. "Are you absolutely, positively certain it's just your problem that's in the way?"
Maureen straightened up. She started to expostulate an indignant affirmative, checked herself.
Am I really sure?
"I...don't know. I'd assumed so, but..."
The trainer nodded. "You can't be. You never can. It could also be a loss of desire on his part. Or he might have flogged himself into no longer thinking of you as a sexual being."
"Can a healthy man do that?"
Christine nodded. "I never told you about my trainer, did I?"
"No, you've..." Maybe I don't know you as well as I'd like. "Might I learn something from the tale? I don't wish to pry --"
Christine smirked. "I expect you would. Both ways, babe. Women are cats. We have to know everything, explore every crevice and lick every surface. Why pretend otherwise?" She squeezed Maureen's hands. "So come sit by me and cock an ear."
Maureen shifted in her seat to draw closer to the younger woman, but the geometry of the metal chairs held them several inches apart. Christine snorted, trotted to one edge of the exercise mats, and yanked it loose from its moorings in a display of her considerable strength. With a few tugs and twists she fashioned an improvised chaise longue large enough for the two of them to share.
"Will you get in trouble for this?" Maureen settled gingerly onto the mats next to Christine.
The younger woman drew the older one snugly into her arms, encouraging Maureen to rest her head on her bosom again. She stroked Maureen's hair and rocked her gently.
How she mothers me, and me the older by a good twenty years!
"I'll put it back later," Christine said. "Right now, I want to tell you all about Louis Dylan Aloysius Redmond."
"I never would have guessed any of it," Maureen murmured. "He sounds like an angel made flesh." Like my Chris.
Christine stroked her hair again. "He was, if there are any such. When he died it damn near killed me. Took the heart right out of another woman who loved him just as much. But that's the story."
Christine's hands went to the sides of Maureen's face, held her tenderly but firmly as they locked eyes. "It took a whole week, even after I'd raped him --" Maureen winced. "What's the matter, babe?"
"That word. Is that really...what it was?"
"Well, what would you call it when one person forces himself, or herself, on another sexually? I promise you, the first time around he fought me the whole way."
Maureen nodded. "And the week after?"
Christine pouted. "He wouldn't touch me. Acted like it had never happened. I pretty much had to do it again." She smirked. "He didn't fight me the second time, though."
"Bloody --" Maureen clapped a hand to her mouth. "Sorry."
The trainer chuckled. "For what? I can outswear a carrier battle group when I get cranked. Anyway, he'd never had anyone to do for him what he'd done for me."
"What was that?"
"Made me beautiful." A joy swelled in Christine's face that engulfed all the sorrow there. "Treated me like someone special, someone who deserved respect and admiration. Made me someone to love, instead of someone to abuse."
"Chris, if you had to be made to feel beautiful and special, I can't imagine --"
"And I don't want you to," Christine said. "I want you to feel the way he made me feel. Stand up." She rose and pulled Maureen to her feet. "Off with the duds."
"What?"
"Come on, it's just us little girls. Skin 'em!"
Maureen cast a hasty glance at the entrance and complied.
"Undies too."
"Must I?"
Christine scowled, and Maureen hurried to doff her panties and bra. When she was completely nude, the younger woman bade her stand still, arms at her sides and feet slightly spread, and moved around her, looking critically, touching her gently here and there and emitting the occasional hmmm of assessment.
"You've got the goods, babe. Good shape, still tight in all the right places, skin smooth, no big moles or tags. Not much of a rack, though. A or B?"
Maureen cringed. "A's just a little tight."
"Well, we can fix that. Get dressed." The trainer trotted to the front row of chairs and fished up her purse. "We're going shopping."
They were on their sixth outfit before Maureen protested in earnest.
"Chris," she whispered as the Albrecht's saleslady moved away for another selection, "I can't afford this!"
Christine's eyes twinkled. "Yes, you can. Relax, babe. We're not halfway there yet."
Dear Lord. Everything silk or linen. Everything gorgeous. Everything so flirtatious I could never have dreamed of wearing it. Where's the money supposed to come from for all of it?
She'd gotten a single fleeting glance at one price tag before Christine ripped it out of her hand.
And we haven't been to the shoe salon yet. I think I feel faint.
Her hands rose to cup the pliable gel "cutlets" Christine had molded to the undersides of her breasts.
"Are they uncomfortable? Coming loose?" Christine said.
"No, not at all. I very nearly forgot they were there."
The younger woman grinned. "They do you good, babe. I'd say to wear them all the time. Well, maybe not in bed." She put on an exaggerated upper-class-Londonian accent. "One must let the skin breathe now and then, eh?"
Maureen couldn't help but giggle. "Oh, mustn't one just. And serve the cause of discretion as well!"
Christine laughed. "Discretion and a C cup. A breakthrough for the ages!"
A seventh fitting, this one a daringly cut red silk minidress that clung to her like a desperate lover, and Christine called a halt. They toted their selections to the register, and before Maureen could say a word, Christine told the saleslady to ship all the purchases to the Chase residence, whipped out a gold credit card, and thrust it through the stripe reader. The saleslady rang up the transaction without comment.
"Chris --"
"My treat, babe. We're getting you beautiful." Christine grinned, signed the credit slip, and pocketed the receipt before Maureen could glimpse the total. "And we're way far from done, so summon your reserves. Next comes the fun part: shoes!"
"What's fun about that?"
Christine frowned. "Are you sure you're a girl?"
Martine had done her best with the available space. Thinning out the breadth of the selections helped. There was room for at least one of everything, and much to her surprise, she'd managed to make the displays somewhat reminiscent of Helen's shop in Los Angeles. The workmen had finished installing the tub and mirroring the walls of the rear gallery, and she'd hung a lovely curtain of Baltic amber beads in the doorway to it. The card table was set up in the corner, the tea service and a plate of Helen's special cakes upon it. A sense of having settled in was building in her.
She sighed in satisfaction, went to the door of the shop, and stepped outside to breathe the evening air. On impulse, she flipped the sign to OPEN before pulling the door closed behind her.
I'm ready. It's time to make Helen proud.
There was a prospect of traffic after all. She hadn't previously taken account of the large department store a block to the south. With Grand Street, the city's main drag, only a block further to the north, pedestrian passers-by might be more numerous than she'd feared.
As she scanned the area, her eyes lit on a pair of women exiting the department store. Even at a block's distance, Martine could tell they were revved high, excited and pleased with themselves and their purchases. From their body language it was clear that the taller one was the dominant, leader of the expedition.
Martine's hand drifted toward the steel busk that covered her mound. The anxiety of solitude, the sense of nakedness from not having immeasurably wiser and more assured Helen to backstop her had risen in her again. She fought it down, prayed for the chance to prove herself.
Walk this way, ladies. Be my first customers. Please!
The two did exactly that, the taller one with a relaxed yet confident saunter, the smaller one stumbling, wobbling, and giggling in unfeigned delight as she accustomed herself to her high heels, probably the first high heels she'd ever owned.
"Oooh," Maureen cooed.
"Getting the hang of it?"
"Chris, this simply must be a mortal sin!
"Hm?"
"Feeling this good. This..."
"Sexy?"
Maureen blushed.
"The point is sex, isn't it?" Christine said.
"Well, yes. Partly."
"Oh? What's the other part?"
Maureen giggled. She'd learned that the knack for walking in her five-inch stiletto-heeled sandals was to put one foot directly in front of the other, keep her legs close together, and take short, deliberate steps. It compelled her to swing her hips as no ordinarily modest Englishwoman would have done. The minidress caressed her from shoulders to hips with each step. The sensuous friction as her silk-clad thighs swished against one another was more of a delight than she could have imagined. "Feeling beautiful." Young, innocent, and carefree. Like a newborn.
"Wallow in it, babe. This is what life in America is supposed to be. Capitalism without guilt. Work hard, play even harder. Pamper and be pampered. Give your best and be your best. What I don't get is why Chris never did this for you."
"He's a very practical sort, dear. He deals with necessities readily and quite well, but luxuries are...foreign to him." You should see his underwear. Or perhaps not. "What is it?"
The younger woman had halted, eyes fixed on the front of a nearby store. It appeared newly occupied. The windows displayed an assortment of saucy lingerie, in a wide variety of fabrics, styles, and colors. The marquee proclaimed the name of the establishment to be Evenings To Remember.
"Aren't we done for the evening, Chris?"
"Maybe not," Christine said. "Let's have a look in here."
Martine stood before her counter and waited with as much nonchalance as she could fake. When the shop door finally opened, she had to repress a sigh of relief.
The two women who entered were a study in contrasts. One was young and tall, with a Valkyrie's figure. She carried herself like a warrior, as well: boundless confidence, unfazed by anything and ready for all of it. The other woman was slender, short, and middle-aged, with a natural reserve, or shyness, that she couldn't conceal. Both sported smiles, but the older woman displayed a hint of tension, of the sort that comes from finding oneself in unfamiliar, disturbing surroundings.
The older woman's eyes roved the racks of lingerie and marital aids, her expression slowly changing from puzzled to disturbed. The younger one stared directly at Martine. She murmured a single word: "Yum!"
Martine smiled and bowed. "Welcome to Evenings To Remember, ladies. I'm Martine Arnault. Today is our grand opening, and you're our very first customers." She gestured toward the card table and the tea service. "Shall we take a few minutes to celebrate and get acquainted?"
The younger woman smiled naughtily and pulled the older one forward. "We shall."
It took only one of the little cakes to dissolve Maureen's reserve like the sugar lump in her tea. Not ten minutes after they'd stepped through the door, she was holding Martine's hands and chattering away as if the two were bosom friends of twenty years' standing. Christine simply sat back and listened, attentive but relaxed and openly amused. Time passed unmeasured and unmonitored.
Presently Christine stood and stretched. "I have to get going. I have early appointments tomorrow. Take care of her for me, Martine?"
Maureen started from her chair. "Chris --"
"Enjoy the rest of the evening, babe. I can catch the bus at the corner. " Her eyes moved to Martine's. "Congrats on your opening. I'll be back sometime."
Martine smiled suggestively. "I hope so."
As the door closed, Martine squeezed Maureen's hands gently and said, "You're lucky to have a friend like that."
"I know," Maureen said. She took a second cake from the salver and nibbled at it, savoring the spicy sweetness as it spread over her tongue. "These are frightfully good. Is it your own recipe?"
Martine shook her head. "Taught to me by Helen. My mentor."
"Hm?"
"I'm sort of an apprentice, Mo. This is my first venture out from under Helen's wing." Her gaze briefly swept the shop. "First test of a lot of things she taught me."
"Does Helen run a shop like this, then?"
"In Los Angeles. Where we met." Martine hesitated. "It's only a day since she left, and I already miss her terribly."
Maureen leaned forward. "I think I understand, dear. I can't imagine life without my Chris."
Martine peered closely at the older woman. "What about your other Chris? The one you ran to first with your problem? The one who just dolled you up like the queen of all English sexpots? The one who checked me out for a whole hour before deciding it was okay to leave you in my care?"
Maureen's mouth fell open.
"Did she say what moved her to bring you in here, Mo?"
"...no..."
"It disturbed you at first, didn't it?"
Maureen nodded. "I'm a Catholic."
"I'm a Catholic too, Mo. I know all the teachings. I know how the Church treats sexuality and sexual pleasure. And I'll tell you something your pastor never will." Martine felt her intensity rise. "Every woman who lives is married to every other woman who's ever lived. Husband or no husband. We have a bond from birth that marriage to a man can't undo. It goes all the way back to Creation, to Eve, to the first blood that dripped from our loins. And when we accept it, and learn to make use of its power, we become more than we were. Much more."
"How?" Maureen whispered.
Martine hesitated, suddenly unsure. She groped for reassurance from the Power, felt it come vibrantly awake within her, and her uncertainty vanished.
"Celebrants. Priestesses. The true keepers of the fire of life."
Around them, the little shop was silent. No noise intruded from the street, now fully dark.
"I don't understand," Maureen whispered.
”Your friend does.” Martine went to the shop door and locked it, bade Maureen to rise, and urged her gently toward the amber curtain. "And you will."
Martine positioned Maureen before a wall of mirrors and bade her stand at ease. The shopkeeper examined her critically from every angle, as Christine had, but without comment. Strangely, she felt no tension at all.
Lord, I am in your hands. I don't fear this new sense of indulgence, and I don't know if I should. Guide me rightly.
Finally Martine said, "I don't understand it."
"What?"
"How could you have not known that you're beautiful?" The young woman smiled. "I saw it right away. Is it the vaginitis?"
Maureen's head drooped. "It might be."
"Would you like me to fix that?"
Her head snapped back up. "You can?"
Martine nodded. "Maybe. Would you disrobe, please?"
Maureen felt an unexpected thrill, the current that goes with the anticipation of onrushing joy, course through her. She grinned impishly.
"I will if you will."
Martine grinned back. "With pleasure." The young woman stepped out of her high-heeled pumps, peeled off her stockings, undid a short zipper on her form-fitting leather sheath and slid it past her hips as easily as if her skin had been greased. The figure thus revealed was as lusciously striking as Christine's. Maureen blushed, turned away, and made to remove her new clothes.
When she turned back, she noted that the shopkeeper had retained a single garment: a device of steel and leather that circled her waist and enclosed her groin.
"Is that a...chastity belt?"
Martine nodded. "I wear it just about all the time."
"Good Lord, why?"
"It's part of my vocation."
"Hm?" You're too sexy for Opus Dei!
"I'm a professional horny bitch, Mo. I'm supposed to stay as horny as possible as much of the time as possible. Believe it or not, that's the fuel that keeps me going."
Maureen Harkness had thought herself worldly. She'd thought she knew Mankind in its profusion and variety. In that moment she learned how narrow her horizons had really been. She stepped forward and crouched to examine the contrivance that bound Martine's loins.
It was a solid steel plate, brightly polished, closely fitted to the young woman's flesh and held tight there by thick leather bands. The edges of the plate were smoothly beveled, but even so, there were deep red grooves in the flesh along them. It looked as if it would permit no ingress at all.
"Does it hurt?"
Martine shook her head. "Not any more."
"You wear it...all the time?"
"Almost."
She touched her fingertips to the plate. "Is this what I should --"
"No and hell no! Your program will be completely different." Martine gestured toward a massage table at the far end of the room.
Program?
Maureen followed the shopkeeper to the table. Martine gestured to her to get up on it, bade her lie on her stomach, arms at her sides.
"There are several kinds of vaginitis," Martine said as she fumbled in a drawer set into the table's base. "Yours might be treatable, but you’d never get the right kind of treatment from a medical doctor." She grinned. "That's part of what I do. Will you trust me not to hurt you?"
Maureen hesitated, then nodded.
"Thank you. Just lie there and let me work."
And so it began.
Martine's awareness of her every movement as she labored over Maureen was uniquely vivid. The tremors that ran through the older woman's form as Martine massaged and caressed her reminded her over and over that this was not a creature accustomed to the thought of sex as pleasure or play.
She's led an arid life. Love, maybe even a lot of it, but not much fun.
"Time to turn over, Mo."
Maureen's skin was smooth and pliable. It bore the milk-and-roses tint typical of English womanhood, and the chamois-like texture of maturity that embeds every past caress in loving remembrance. Her breasts were small and firm. Her ribcage musculature was solid, without hernia or sag. Her waist was trim, her hips motherly but not overly padded. She bore her years as well as any woman could hope to.
Her husband must know what he's denying himself. I have to fix this.
It was at her vagina that things went sour. Martine parted the labia tenderly and leaned close. The opening was completely dry. The residual lubrication that can be found in a healthy woman, unaroused but sexually fully functional, was entirely absent.
"Mo," Martine murmured, "I'm going to remove your pubic hair. Is that okay?"
Eyes closed, the older woman nodded.
Martine plied an electric clipper over Maureen's mound until only stubble remained, then lathered her up and carefully scraped away the stubble with a safety razor. At the end, Maureen's pubis was as clean and smooth as Martine's own.
"You'll have to keep this up for yourself, Mo," she said. "Shave it every two or three days. Otherwise the vaginitis will return, and it will itch like crazy, to boot."
From the table drawer, Martine extracted a small torpedo-shaped vibrator. She coated it liberally and carefully with the special unguent Helen had compounded for easing an irritation of the mucous membranes, parted Maureen's labia again, and murmured, "Try to hold still, dear."
The older woman nodded again. Martine activated the vibrator, put the tip against the entrance to her vagina, and inserted it slowly. Maureen gasped and her eyes popped open.
"Does it hurt?"
"No...no!" Maureen's long muscles contracted and relaxed in a steady rhythm. Her hands clenched the edges of the table. "It's wonderful!"
Martine rotated the vibrator slowly as she worked it in and out, doing her best to spread the healing balm evenly over the whole surface of the vaginal membrane. She kept an eye on Maureen's reactions, vigilant for any indications of pain or stress. There were none, only a rising arousal building inexorably toward orgasm.
Just before climax, Martine put her free hand against Maureen's sternum and pressed downward. The orgasm that followed was volcanic, likely more violent than anything Maureen had experienced before. Without Martine's restraint, she might have flown off the table.
When her gasping and spasming had subsided, Maureen elbowed herself upright, tears streaming down her face, and beckoned Martine into her arms.
"You're an angel," she sobbed. "A genuine angel."
"No, Mo, not quite," Martine murmured into her ear. "But I'm on pretty good terms with one."
”You have to do it every day,” Martine told her. She handed the vibrator and the tube of unguent to Maureen. “All the way to orgasm. Two or three days, and you’ll start to feel fresh and moist again. In about a week, the tissues will start producing their own lubrication. Then comes the hard part.”
Maureen thrust the gifts into her new purse. “What’s that?”
”Persuading Mr. Harkness that you’re ready for battle.”
Maureen chuckled. “It’s Mr. Chase, actually, but I got the idea.” She pulled her stockings up legs that seemed twice as sensitive as they had in Albrecht’s women’s department, fastened them to her garters, and slipped her feet into her sandals. Every movement brought a languorous delight. Her state of dreamy contentment repelled all her misgivings and cares. “Will it be like that every time?”
Martine grinned. “We can hope so. Mo,” she said, “if you’re nervous about it, or shy, you can always stop by. I’ll help.”
”I know, dear. We’ll just have to see.” After this, bracing Chris won’t seem like that much of a challenge. She adjusted her minidress, stood and held out a hand. “Thank you for everything.”
Martine stepped past the proffered hand and caught her in a full, warm embrace.
”May I make two little suggestions, Mo?”
Maureen pressed the younger woman’s form firmly against her own. “Anything, dear.”
”Drive home barefoot. Learning to drive in heels takes a lot of practice.” Martine paused briefly. “And tell him you want to take his name.”
”Hm?” She pulled slightly back and peered into Martine’s eyes.
”You wouldn’t believe what it means to a man. They all say it doesn’t matter.” Martine’s eyes twinkled. “They all lie. Trust me.”
”I will.” Maureen hugged her again. “Are you sure you’re not an angel?”
Martine chuckled. “I think God would have told me.”
Only after the door of the shop closed behind her did Maureen realize that her evening wasn't quite over.
Though brightly lit, copiously traveled Grand Avenue was only a block away, the side street on which she'd found Evenings To Remember was fully dark, lit only by scattering of stars, and seemed devoid of life. Maureen wasn't reflexively afraid of the dark, but the city was largely unknown to her. Her husband had warned against walking its streets alone at night. She started hesitantly toward the municipal parking lot, placing her feet carefully, straining to see through the dark but only able to discern objects a yard or two away.
The lot was well lit, and her fears retreated. She was almost at her car's door when a large, dark figure in rough clothes stepped between it and her.
"Yo, mama. Whatchoo doin' out here? Lookin' fo' a good time?"
The slurred words were followed by a metallic click. A blade gleamed in the figure's hand. Her fears surged to a height she hadn't felt since London. She backed away, stumbled, and would have fallen had a pair of strong hands not caught her by the waist and steadied her.
"Careful, babe."
Christine stepped around her and confronted the knife-toting thug.
"My friend's a little tired. Want to play with me, asshole?"
The young thug snarled and lunged, knife held low, and slashed across Christine's midsection.
Maureen couldn't see clearly what happened next. It looked as if Christine caught the knife blade with a lightning sweep of her hand. It looked as if the thug froze in mid-swing and tried to wrench the weapon free, without success. It looked as if Christine snapped off the blade with her thumb, tossed it aside, and knocked her attacker cold with the neutered grip. But that, of course, was entirely impossible.
However, at the end of the tussle the thug was lying motionless on the macadam, and Christine was standing over him with arms akimbo, clucking in disapproval.
"Where were you?" Maureen whispered as she strove to quell her shakes.
Christine shrugged. "I waited outside the store. I wanted you two to have some privacy, but I thought I should stick around in case you needed a little help. Come on, it's time you got home."
She bundled Maureen into her car, shut the door, and sauntered back toward the shop. Maureen fumbled out her keys, started the car, and headed for her Foxwood home, her mind alight with thanks and praise to God for the friendship of Christine D'Alessandro.
Martine was unsurprised when Christine returned to her shop.
"Did your friend get home all right?"
"Not quite," Christine said. "A little trouble in the parking lot. I just put her in her car. I think she'll be okay."
"I had a feeling you hadn't gone far."
Christine nodded, absently fingering random items on the countertop. "The city isn't a safe place for a woman alone."
"Not even you?"
Christine chuckled. "Well, maybe for me. I wanted to chat with you a little, if you're not busy with important stuff."
Martine laid her journal aside and gestured at the card table, and the two resumed their seats.
"I wanted to thank you for helping my friend," Christine said. "She's had it pretty rough since coming to this country. She can't get a job in her field, her daughter was gang-raped a couple of years back, and her husband works way too much for his own good, or hers. What with all that, the sex crap was almost too much for her to bear."
"I sensed some of that," Martine said. "Anyway, I was glad to help." A thought struck her. "Have you ever been to Los Angeles? To Helen's store there?"
Christine shook her head. "I haven't left New York in...well, ever."
"Then how did you know I could help her?"
Christine was slow to answer. She stared down at her folded hands as obscure currents of emotion and contemplation passed over her face.
"You know what I do for a living?"
Martine nodded.
"It's not just a job, babe. It's more like a calling. One of those things that someone has to do, and I've been assigned." Christine looked up. "I've got what I need to do it, thank God, and I enjoy it, too. But the calling is the important part. I don't think I could walk away from it if I wanted to. And I got the same feeling about you and what you do."
Martine said nothing.
"I think...maybe we're the same that way, and different from everyone else. That other people get to work out their own ways through life, but our jobs were chosen for us."
"Yes," Martine said. "Helen is like that, too. I wish you could meet her. You'd love each other."
"If she recruited and trained you," Christine said, "I expect so. Tell me, babe." She hesitated. "Are you in contact with something?"
Martine's breath came short. She nodded convulsively. "Are you?" she whispered.
Christine smiled. "All my life. He's kept me sane."
"We are the same," Martine said. "Except I wasn't...in touch until Helen recruited me."
Christine flipped a hand. "Not important. Look, Onteora can be a rough place. You're new here, so you're likely to be targeted by some of our less refined citizens. Private and public." She pulled a card out of her jeans pocket and passed it across the table. "If anyone gives you trouble, you use that number. Day or night. Hell, put it on speed dial." She grinned. "Or call if you want a drinking buddy, or a shoulder, or someone to shop or watch TV with."
Martine closed her eyes and prayed for communion with the Power. It came at once, and blanketed her with the sense of approval for which she'd hoped.
Did Helen know this would happen?
"Chris? You haven't seen the whole shop. And I have an apartment in back. Would you like the grand tour?"
Christine rose. "Sure, why not?"
Martine rose and held out a hand, and Christine took it. As they passed through the curtain of amber beads into the mirrored gallery, Martine said, "The apartment isn't much, really, except that it has this amazing tub."
Christine grinned. "Really? Let me see."
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Tornado
(I'm not perfectly sure what this one is, or where it "came from." It's set in Onteora, and it's an erotic romance...but it's inexpressibly more.
The older I get, the more I value permanence. The pleasures of the world are nice things -- you'll never hear me say otherwise -- but many of them seem just too ephemeral to waste one's time on. That's particularly the case in matters of sex-for-sex's sake. For the young and carefree...okay. But we don't stay young forever. It's a lesson quite a lot of Boomers neglected to learn.)
I didn't understand it, and it troubled me no end.
Melinda Hunter was the Purchasing Department joke. The other men could hardly resist snickering and lewd comments as she passed by. She'd earned them with her behavior at after-hours watering holes and departmental parties.
On the surface, Mel was a major winner: fresh-faced, bosomy yet slender, extroverted, and well supplied with intelligence and drive. She was always beautifully dressed: tailored blouses, knee-length skirts, hose and high heels. Never trousers or jeans. Always just the right number of accessories, and in the best of taste. Her skill at negotiating with our suppliers left thirty-year veterans of the purchasing wars breathless. She knew how to play the corporate game, too; at twenty-eight she already had upper management eating out of her hand. The smart money was on her becoming the director of the department when Josh Parnell finally found the grace to retire. All the other women hated her.
You had to know about her slutteries to appreciate the contradiction.
Major winner, yeah. Young, single, beautiful, energetic, competent, -- and cheap. Cheap by choice.
Mel's trademark sex act had earned her a weird moniker: "Tornado." Apparently "Hoover" was considered too cliched, or perhaps inappropriate because she preferred to stand up. I couldn't help but wonder if she knew about it...or cared.
I cared. I tried not to let it show.
I stayed well clear of her. As powerfully attracted to her as I was, I had no intention of becoming part of her stable. Cheap and easy have never done a thing for me. I was damned if I'd ratify it with a woman as super in every other way as Mel.
After she'd been a bare two years in the department, I learned that I was the only man there who hadn't sampled her favors. That made me one of the office jokes, as well. I tried not to let it bother me.
But it bothered Mel.
A typical office has a few spots in which, given time and determination, you can corner anyone: the coffee service, the water cooler, the copier, the fax machine, and the departmental secretary's station. If you're aware that you're being stalked, those are places to avoid. Use them after hours if you can. If you can't wait that long, "case the joint" before approaching, do your work, and get back to your desk. Don't linger.
Of course, a determined stalker will notice. He'll watch your movements, note the patterns, and devise a counter-tactic. You must be ready for the inevitable.
My Achilles heel was the fax. Quite a number of our suppliers are averse to doing business over the Internet. They have their reasons, and I'm required to respect them. Anyway, fax is reliable and secure. But damned few offices have more than one, and I wasn't about to pay for fax service out of my own pocket just to avoid using ours.
I tried to schedule my faxing toward the end of the day, when everyone else's mind is on finishing up and going home. Occasionally it wasn't possible to wait that long. On one such occasion, I'd just gotten my order form into the hopper when I felt a slim hand land softly on my shoulder.
I turned. It was Mel, of course. Elegantly dressed as always, and with her trademark naughty smile. There was no document in her hands.
"How are you, Ryan?"
I smiled formally. "Fine, thanks." I started to turn back toward the machine, but she halted me.
"A few of us have plans to gather at the Black Grape after work. I hear Todd and Jeanne Iverson will be there, too. Have you ever met them?"
I swallowed. Her right hand was still on my shoulder. "Once, when I joined the company."
Her smile widened. "It would be an opportunity to deepen your acquaintance with them." Her left hand rose to land on my other shoulder. "With me, too."
I winced. Her smile gave way to a look of concern.
"Something wrong?"
I glanced pointedly over her head, shouted, "Josh, I need to speak with you," and pushed past her, leaving my order form in the machine and unfaxed.
I don't drink much, and seldom when I'm out. These days the cops are harder on drunk drivers than they are on serial killers. But that night I needed a couple, and it felt wrong to go home to do it.
I went to Team Spirits, a sports bar on the opposite side of town, to minimize the chance of running into anyone else I knew. There were plenty of available booths; I picked up a beer from the bar and slid into one. The bartendress frowned at me, as I was alone and there was no one else at the bar. I'm not solitary most of the time, but that night what I had on my mind wouldn't support a conversation. I wasn't looking to drown my sorrows; I just wanted to take them out for a quick wade in the shallows.
But Murphy's Law was on the lookout for me. Apparently I'd dodged the Flying Purple Shaft too often recently, and it had marked me for special attention. I wasn't a third of the way through that beer when the bartendress slid into the seat across from me and leaned toward me.
"Feeling a little low?"
I shook my head. "Just wetting down a few scattered thoughts. You know how it is."
She chuckled. "Don't I just." She looked me over swiftly and held out a hand. "I'm Nancy."
I shook it quickly. "Ryan."
"Pleased to meet you, Ryan. From the look on your face I figured you could use a little company." A pause. "I know I could."
I said nothing. That might have been the worst thing I could have done. Her face darkened at once.
"What's wrong with that, Bubba?" She looked down at herself. "Not good enough to sit with you?"
I shook my head. "Come on, you should know better. You're young and pretty and friendly. I'm flattered that you came back here. I'm just not fit company tonight. If I were in a better mood..." I let the thought trail off.
A look of understanding lit her eyes. "Girl troubles, hon?"
"You could say that."
"I'm a girl," she said. "Nothing's better for girl troubles than another girl. That's what my other customers tell me, anyway. And I own this joint. Want me to lock the door?" She glanced back at her bar. "Doesn't look like there'll be much trade for a while, anyway."
I've never claimed to understand the female mind, but these past few years the Plutonians I'd gotten used to seem to have been replaced by demons from another dimension. Her offer, which obviously implied quite a bit more than conversation, left me too flabbergasted to compose a coherent reply.
The door swung open, and high heels clicked smartly down the aisle.
"Excuse me," a soft alto voice said, "I believe this seat is taken."
Nancy looked up in irritation. "Bet your ass, babe. Find another."
A hand shot out, took Nancy by the ear and tugged sharply. She screamed and raised her hands to attack, but Mel caught Nancy's wrists, whirled her around, and twisted her arms into a neat cross-Nelson.
"Back off, sweetie." Mel's smile was feral, the rictus of the predator in the instant before the pounce. "He's mine."
"Well, that was something new."
"What?" Mel twisted around in the passenger seat to face me. "You've never seen two women fight over a man before? Believe me, it happens all the time."
"Around you, maybe."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"Means what it says. I've never seen it before. So what brings you all the way out here?"
"You do."
"Hm?"
"I followed you, Ryan. Isn't that just a wee bit obvious?"
"But why?"
"Because I have to know."
"Why I avoid you, you mean?"
"Well, why? What's wrong with me?"
I laughed. "That's twice in fifteen minutes a beautiful woman has asked me that. What is it with you, anyway? Why does something have to be 'wrong with you' for me not to want to become part of your harem, Tornado?"
Mel paled and her mouth dropped open. "What did you call me?"
"What every other man in the office calls you. Didn't you know?"
She began to tremble. Not little tremors, like ordinary nerves or someone who's having a hard time holding still, but real, violent quakes that looked powerful enough to shake her apart.
I reflexively put a hand to her shoulder. As I touched her, willingly for the first time, two things happened.
She burst into tears.
My heart broke.
"Forgive me?"
Mel nodded. "I'd heard the word used in the office. I just didn't know it referred to me." She raised a tear-streaked face. "Because of what I --"
"I assume so," I said quickly. "No need to discuss it in the parking lot of a sleazy bar."
She nodded and leaned into me, heedless of the gearshift digging into her thigh. I laid an arm tentatively around her shoulders. She was still quivering slightly.
I struggled with my own contradictions. I'm no prude. I enjoy sex as much as the next man. But I have an aversion to "going-nowhere" sex. Quickies. One-night stands with nothing exchanged but sweat, saliva, and semen. I want things to last. I want to build things that will last.
"Mel," I murmured, "have you had dinner?"
She shook her head.
"Would you like some?"
She looked up. "Sure. Where to?" She reached into her purse to grope for her keys. I laid a hand on hers, and she stopped.
"I'll drive."
Mel gave me a speculative look as we pulled into my driveway, but she held her tongue and followed me inside. I gave silent thanks that my cleaning lady had been there earlier that day.
I gestured her toward my living-room sofa. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a moment." She nodded and seated herself, smoothing her skirt carefully beneath her.
The liquor cabinet held a single unopened bottle of Gewurtztraminer. It would have to do. I uncorked it, poured two glasses, and brought them out to her. She accepted one with a nod and a murmur of thanks. We clinked and sipped.
"Are you averse to cheddar omelets and English muffins for dinner?" I said. "It's all I have the fixings for."
She smiled wanly. "The bachelor life. I know it well. No, that will be fine. I'd rather we stayed here anyway, even with no food at all."
I saluted her with my glass, rose, and went to the kitchen to fix dinner. As I worked, I heard movement in the dining room behind me, drawers opening, cloth flapping, and glassware clinking. Twenty minutes later I and my electric frying pan discovered that Mel had set the table, and more.
She had explored my sideboard thoroughly. She'd covered my old rock-maple table with my Irish linen tablecloth. She'd deployed my best china, beautifully delicate pieces over seventy years old, and the silverware I'd inherited from my paternal grandmother. She'd fitted slender white tapers into the candleholders and lit them, bathing the room in the inimitable glow that bespeaks an intimate encounter. Every item on the table was a family heirloom I'd never before found an occasion to use.
She stood waiting by the table, hands folded before her.
"Sorry I couldn't invent a centerpiece," she said. "You don't have any flowers lying around."
I swallowed. "I could send out."
She giggled. "The omelets would get cold."
I glanced down at the omelets. "They might die of embarrassment anyway."
Another giggle. "Sit down, Ryan."
We did. I served us and poured more Gewurtztraminer.
About three bites in, Mel said, "You have to watch out for 'special occasion' syndrome. Use your good stuff. Every day above ground is a special occasion."
I nodded, reached for my English muffin, and stopped. "That's part of why I never understood."
Her brow furrowed. In the candlelight her eyes were enormous.
"Why you...you know."
"Oh." She dropped her gaze to her plate.
"Look," I said, suddenly exasperated, "I'm not one of the everyone-is-special types. That's a lot of crap, always has been and always will be. There are a lot of people whose sole function in life is to keep their clothes filled. I don't trouble myself about them, and I'm sure they don't trouble themselves about me. But you are special." Mel looked up, plainly astonished. "You have every asset a woman could possibly want. I've been looking for exactly what and who you are all my adult life."
The cords of my neck had tautened and my hands had balled into fists.
"Ryan," she whispered, "that's how I feel about you."
There are no words in the dictionary adequate to how I felt upon hearing that. "Stunned" doesn't come close. "Devastated" is too modest.
"Then why have you cheapened it night after night by degrading yourself with anyone who wants his ashes hauled?" My voice had risen without my willing it. "Then you try to drag me into the same pigsty. How the hell am I supposed to feel about that?"
Animation flooded into her face. "That's not why I approached you. I meant what I said about wanting to get to know you better. I've waited for an opportunity for nearly two years, and you've been so elusive I had to jump at today's chance. I thought I might never get another one."
A long moment of silence passed between us.
"Are you serious?" I said.
She nodded.
"Then why...why all the others?"
"Ryan," she said wearily, "I just suck them off. I don't fuck them. Well, not often, anyway." She noticed my grimace. "What's wrong?"
I held up a hand and looked aside. I have a thing about gutter language, but I wasn't about to reveal that particular prissiness at the moment. Not when even the broadcast radio and television stations no longer try to repress it.
Mel rose, circled the table, and draped her arms around my shoulders from behind. I sat unmoving.
"Are you still hungry?" she murmured.
I looked up. "Not particularly."
She put one hand to the underside of my chin. "Then come with me."
Mel found my bedroom without having to ask the way and pulled me in behind her. It's not much -- no two pieces match -- but I try to keep it neat. She sat on the edge of my bed, gestured to me to join her, and took my hand again.
"I think you can guess why we're here," she said.
I nodded. "I'm not that slow. But I do have a question first."
"Which is?"
"Why all the others? Whoever and whenever and whatever, what did you get out of it?"
She shrugged. "It was just to break the isolation. Everyone's always looked at me...well, pretty much the way you did just before. Special. A world-beater. Too good for mortal man. Frightening. It gets lonely up on a pedestal, Ryan. I wanted to come down. So I thought about what would most likely get me down, and I did it." She scowled. "I've never really enjoyed it much. Not that I expected to."
"Would you like to know why?" I said.
She nodded, eyes wary.
"Because you are special, and you know it. You can't just throw yourself at the mediocre majority and expect to get anything out of it. The mediocre majority has nothing to offer you. It can take what you offer, but it can never pay you back in any adequate way. Would you like to know what the chief pleasure you offered all those other men really was?"
She said nothing.
"The satisfaction from saying to themselves that they'd lowered you beneath them. Instead of kinking their necks looking up at you, now they could look down, and maybe spit."
Another nod. "I think I knew that. I just...oh, never mind." She turned and wrapped her arms around me. I reciprocated. "Shall we make love?" she said.
"We shall."
We undressed together, and presently stood nude in the evening dimness. Her body was smooth and perfect, a symphony of luscious curves and flawless skin.
She started toward me, and I held up a hand. "Are you on the pill?"
She shook her head. "No, I use a diaphragm."
"Are you wearing it now?"
"Yes."
"Take it out."
"But --"
"Do it."
She complied and handed it to me. I gave it a cursory glance and laid it aside.
"This is not a fling for me, Mel," I said. "I'm done with flings and holding actions. This is as serious as it gets. I love you. I want you for my wife and the mother of my children. Do you feel the same?"
She was quivering visibly. "Yes."
"Then we start here and now, no holding back, no protection against one another, and no regrets no matter what should happen. Or we don't start at all."
"What if I can't have children?" she whispered.
"Would that oppress you terribly?"
"...no..."
"Then we'll leave that up to God. Will you have me for your husband? To love, cherish, and obey, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death do us part?"
She frowned. "Obey?"
"Just so. A household can have only one head. I will be that head. If not with you, then eventually with someone else. Those are my terms. Do you accept them?"
About ten thousand years later she whispered, "I do."
I took her in my arms, and we kissed for the first time.
Her lips were soft, her mouth sweet, her body warm. The cushiony pleasure of holding her against me and kissing her was exquisite, maddening. She moaned into my mouth and pressed herself firmly against me. My hands slid down her back and settled upon her rump, and I lifted her into the air and impaled her upon me.
She squealed and pulled back to look into my eyes. "No foreplay?"
I grinned. "Foreplay, afterplay, humbug! We'll have duringplay. Betweenplay. All-the-while-play. And play we will, my love. Join in as the spirit moves you."
I lowered her onto the bed, disengaging reluctantly. My hands and lips began a slow, worshipful exploration of her body. Full, ripe breasts, milky-pink, with turgid nipples and skin soft as rose petals. A beautifully tapered rib cage covered with the same satiny skin, but with surprising muscle beneath. A narrow waist and a perfect jewel of a navel. Hips of a goddess of fecundity, and perfect legs that promised an inescapable embrace.
I stroked her from head to toe, over and over, lingering over her nipples and her mound. She moaned and undulated in time to my caresses, in the erotic rhythm of a temple dancer.
"Ryan," she gasped, "I want you back inside me."
"All in good time," I said, parting her labia and taking her clitoris between my lips.
She squealed and shuddered as the first of her orgasms swept over her. I paused to let it pass, then resumed my nibbling. Another climax was upon her at once, and another after that. Within minutes she was panting raggedly, chest heaving from the tidal waves of tension and release. I rose and peered down at her through the gloom.
"What was it you said you wanted just before?"
"Come back down here, damn it!"
I did, and she welcomed me home.
We were unable to keep our hands off one another throughout the night. It was a struggle to rise and part the morning after, though we knew it would be a brief parting.
The office was as it usually is. I walked in at the usual time, drew a cup of coffee from the communal urn, and set to my work as if it were any ordinary Thursday. It would not be ordinary for long.
On my way to the copier I passed several other coworkers, and crossed paths with Mel on her way to wherever. We couldn't resist a brushing caress as we passed one another. I held my giggle back; she couldn't quite restrain hers.
Hal Larson grabbed me by the arm as I returned to my desk. "So it's true, then?"
"Hm? What's true?"
He shook his head. "I couldn't quite believe it, but my wife swore on a Bible that she'd seen you and Tornado out together. Said you looked like an item --"
I didn't let him get another word out. My right fist snapped out and caught him on the point of his chin, a perfect knockout punch. His eyes rolled up and he started to crumple. I caught him under the arms and dragged him to the departmental secretary's station, shouting "Everyone in Purchasing, up to the front desk, right now!"
I found a crowd of baffled purchasing agents there. What they thought of me dragging Larson's limp carcass will have to go unrecorded. I let him slump to the carpet, beckoned Mel out of the crowd to my side, and took her hand.
"I have a couple of announcements. First, the lady whom you've known these past two years as Melinda Hunter is now Mrs. Ryan Cunningham." I swept the gathering with my eyes. "I trust you will join me in celebrating our choice of one another."
There was a smattering of applause, but most were too stunned to react. I heard the doors open behind me, but didn't turn to see who it was.
"Second, there's a word that will no longer be uttered in this office, or for that matter anywhere in my hearing. That word is 'tornado.' If we should experience such a weather event, you may call it a cyclone, or a rotary atmospheric disturbance, or Fred, but not a tornado. That word is now forbidden, on pain of what happened to Hal here." I gestured down at Larson, who was still out cold.
"What happened to him?" Roy Service asked.
Service had passed some of the nastiest remarks I'd heard about Mel. I bared my teeth at him. "I happened to him. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"
An amused voice behind me said, "Perfectly, Mr. Cunningham. Back to your posts, everyone."
Mel squeezed my hand and hurried away with the others. I turned and confronted the legend himself.
Todd Iverson isn't a large man, but he can dominate any gathering of any size or composition. It takes one glance for you to know you're in the presence of a master intellect, someone appreciably more than human -- and one glance for him to know whether you have the slightest chance of measuring up to the stratospheric standards he sets for everyone in his employ.
I braced for a blast, but he didn't say a word, nor did I. He merely looked me in the eyes, smiled, and nodded as if in approval, before striding down the aisle to Josh Parnell's office. I watched him recede until he was out of sight, then returned to my own desk.
Nothing more of interest happened that day, until I was home and in Mel's arms.
After we'd dined, cleared the dishes, and made love quite as extraordinary as the evening before, we held each other and conversed in the darkness.
"What on Earth got into you today?" Mel said. "I never figured you for a brawler."
"I'm not," I said. "But I had to make it plain that some things would no longer be tolerated. They'd never have believed me if I'd stopped at just words. I had to punish a violator and let everyone know that I'd done it, or the snickering and degrading comments would never end."
I drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I can't tell you how relieved I was still to have a job at the end of the day. When I found Iverson behind me, I thought I was going to need to pack my things. But he just smiled and nodded."
Mel chuckled and snuggled close to me. "That wasn't why he came to Purchasing."
"Oh? Is there other news? A promotion in the offing for Mrs. Cunningham, perhaps?"
"Well, we'll see. But Todd came to our area because Josh has finally sent in his retirement papers. The word is that he didn't nominate a successor, just left it up to Todd. So I think our genius CEO might have been smiling and nodding at the next director of Purchasing."
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!"
