Tabula Rasa
1. Number Four, Across
Douglas Jensen was on his third cup of coffee and second crossword puzzle when the door swings open.
He looks up from his cup but turns back to his drinking just as quickly.
It's just Lloyd, bringing in yet another fresh batch from the coffee shop across the bureau.
"Figured we'd need it since it seems we're going to have to pull an all-nighter," he quips as he sets the paper cups next to the box of donuts on the table, and settles down on the swivel chair closest to it. "Third one in a row. Man, my wife's going to have a fit."
A curt, dismissive nod is the only response as the other man's attention has already moved on to number 4, across.
"What do we need this guy for again?"
"Mmm."
"I mean, where's Mars?" He taps his fingers on the table impulsively.
Meanwhile: 6-letter word.
"It's just a transfer, I'm sure the guy can handle this." Tap, tap, tap.
Of Turkish etymology.
"Heck, I can handle this." Tap, tap.
Means portion, lot, or fate.
"I used to do escort service, you know. Kind of like the same thing. Just less...pleasant." Tap, tap.
The older man wisely decides to put a stop to this line of conversation (and the tapping) before it branches out to different and unrecoverable paths.
"Mars has gone psycho on us. Don't ask."
He puts down the pen and paper on his lap.
"All the other guys are...occupied."
He pushes his eyeglasses further up his nose bridge.
"I don't do flights."
And picking up the pen again,
"You...you're a pervert."
plus the paper,
"And oh yeah, he's the best."
The other man opens his mouth to react, but his faithful listener is already back to his crossword.
That isn't the least bit of a deterrent, though.
"I'll have you know that I absolutely, unequivocally resent that."
When that didn't get a rise out of him, Lloyd tries again.
"I ogle, Doug," he says.
"Harmless ogling, I tell you. I have the decency and enough common sense not to touch."
"Decency? Common sense?," so he is listening, though his eyes are still nailed to the puzzle game, "I don't know much about that. The only thing that's stopping you is that 3-inch thick, one-way mirror standing in your way. And, of course, the numerous things I'd be shovin' up your ass if I ever see you giving her so much as a lingering stare."
"I see you haven't changed, sir. Still making good with the threats." The voice, more subdued and deeper now than what he remembers, comes out of nowhere, but doesn't faze Douglas Jensen in the slightest.
He maneuvers the chair until he's gazing at the familiar face. He's grown taller and more sinewy, and his eyes reflect an ease about him that he knows can only be the product of experience. But to his mind, he's still the new recruit and he is still the teacher. Standing up, he holds out his hand for the customary handshake, "Jack."
"This here's my partner, Brad Lloyd."
"You're late, Shep."
"Best not to delay then, Brad."
With the introductions out of the way, he focuses on the task at hand, inching closer to the one-way mirror. The other men follow suit.
"That the subject?"
"That's the infamous Katherine Austen. Her records says that she..."
"Murdered her father. Robbed a bank. Eluded four senior marshals. Is adept at cross-state jumping, manipulating, and blending in. Family connections mostly in Iowa but stepfather's in the military." He crosses his arms over his chest as he finishes.
The older man just nods, a trace of a smile on his lips.
"Thanks, sir. I covered the basics, just as you taught me."
"36, 25, 29."
"What?"
"Vital stats." Betcha didn't know that, smartass.
The younger man only purses his lips in a good natured smile.
"I know you're not really one to underestimate, Jack. But I'll warn you all the same: she packs a nose-breaking punch."
"Yeah, Mars even got a sample of that. But you can always confirm that for yourself, Shep."
At that point, he makes a move for the door. "I'll keep that in mind, Brad."
But before he goes, as though an afterthought, he says, "And sir, it's Kismet."
Six-letter turkish word for fate. Number four, across.