Georgie sat in her car after she parked by the curb. She stared at the four story condominium that looked as if it had been paneled with wooden planks stained a dark walnut color. Although tall, the building was narrow and completely square. She picked up the piece of paper that she had discarded in her passenger's seat to recheck the address. The address was correct. Of course if she were at the wrong place, the guard at the front gate would not have allowed her onto the property grounds.
The front wall of the bottom floor, which was actually a wide door, lifted to reveal that the first level was a garage. Agent Rester stood in the garage and waved for her to drive inside. Georgie pulled in carefully despite having plenty of room since it was a two car garage and her car was the only one in it at the moment. She could feel the heat of a blush cover her face when her brakes squealed deafeningly as she applied them to come to a complete stop.
"Welcome to your new home, Georgie," the polite but all business agent greeted her, opening her door for her. "Do you need help with your belongings?"
"I don't have much," she returned, walking to the back of the car. She slid her key into the rusty lock that refused to budge. Giving the agent a sheepish smile, she slammed her fist down on the trunk in that one certain spot that would jiggle the lock and allow the key to turn. A dent had formed in the metal due to her constant administration of punches to loosen the stubborn lock.
"Ah, so I see," Anthony Rester said, reaching into the trunk for her two big suitcases.
Georgie ran around to open the passenger's door to retrieve her backpack and purse. Those few bags contained the sum total of all of her life up to this point. It was kind of sad really but convenient for moving. She jumped when the garage door began to lower. As darkness started to fill the space, a light turned on overhead to dispel the shadows.
"Cool," she mumbled, glancing around. The garage was cleaner than her old apartment. The walls were a spotless white and the floor a sealed and shiny concrete slab. There were two doors on either side of the wall in front of her.
"The one on the right there goes to the laundry room. This one goes up stairs to the living area. Do you mind opening that?" Anthony inquired, nodding his head toward the door in front him.
"Oh, right," she mumbled, lunging forward. Once again, she felt embarrassed as she turned the knob and opened the door. His hands were full with her heavy, cumbersome old fashioned suitcases yet her hands were free because her bags were slung over her shoulders. A narrow floating staircase was set between two white walls with a wall of glass behind them. She followed the man up the stairs that opened into a two room space with no walls. There was a kitchen and a living room with a fireplace. Everything was very modern, all straight lines and crisp edges. Minimalism at its finest decorated in espresso brown with bold accents of olive green and pumpkin orange.
"As you can tell, this is the kitchen and living room," he announced before moving on to the staircase straight in front of them that led to the third level. "There's a guest bathroom hidden under this staircase."
"Does Near have guests?" she asked, jogging up the stairs behind him.
"On occasion," he replied.
A man of few words. Guess most agents are lest they allow something to slip that they shouldn't, Georgie thought to herself. "What are these rooms?"
This floor was divided into two rooms with walls and doors, a short hall of dark hardwood flooring between them that led to yet another staircase.
"A library, study, whatever you would prefer to call it, and Near's office. He'll be working from here most of the time so there wouldn't have been a great delineation between your two jobs anyway," he said, the corners of his lips twitching as he resisted the urge to smile.
The tantrum she had thrown in the interview had been quite amusing and encouraging. He liked her spirit, her emotionalism. Near needed someone like that to shake him up, annoy him if she had to, to do something to elicit an emotional response from him. The boy had always been too calm, cool, and collected relying on logic and dry wit to get him through every situation. Anthony could count on one hand how many times Near had 'lost his cool' or had a spontaneous, unrestrained display of emotions. When they had told him about the SPK being dissolved had been the most recent of one of those rare episodes.
The third floor of the living space was set up just like the second, a room on each side of the hall with the doors facing each other and opening into the hall. These had to be the bedrooms. Apparently each one had an attached bathroom since there were no more doors that would lead to one. Georgie had endured enough of communal bathrooms in hostels in Europe or other places that simply did not have more than one or two restrooms to a floor of rooms. Having a private bath, emphasis on the private, would be a genuine luxury for her.
"This is your room," Anthony said, opening the door on his right. "You can decorate it as you wish."
Georgie entered the room ahead of him, setting her backpack and purse on the pristine white quilted mattress of the unmade platform bed. The walls were white and bare - so much white like snow covered tundra that stretched on forever. Or a blank canvas. She could do anything she wanted to with this space, truly make it her own. There was a plain, rectangular chest of drawers painted with glossy black lacquer and an architect's desk with a high backless chair. The door to the empty closet stood open and was ready to be filled. The sun coming through the curtainless window set near the ceiling filled the room with light that was blinding bouncing off of the white walls.
"So this is it?" she murmured, sliding her hands across the soft top of the cushy mattress. She did not have sheets and no money to go buy any. A couple gallons of gas and a quart of oil for the old clunker had taken her last twenty dollars so she could get here.
"This is for you," Agent Rester said, holding out an envelope to her. "Here's an allotment for moving expenses and buying furniture or anything else you might need. If you need more, just ask for it."
"Thank you," she responded, taking the envelope from him. It had the official FBI seal on it so it was not charity coming straight from him. That would have been downright demoralizing. She did not accept handouts. Her money had always been earned; never borrowed, stolen, or begged for.
"Near is at the agency for a debriefing to inform him of all of the changes. He will arrive home around five." Anthony Rester paused, pushing up his black jacket sleeve to look at his watch. "It's noon. Now would be a good time to go shopping. Oh, and you might want to go grocery shopping as well. Beware of the refrigerator. There might be a few science experiments lurking inside."
"Great," she muttered, already feeling sick to her stomach.
"This is yours too." He handed her a cell phone. "My number, Agent Lidner's and Agent Gevanni's are programmed into that phone so you can reach us if you need us. Of course we have other numbers in there that will be useful to you."
Georgie pressed the button to turn on the phone. She scrolled through the contacts. Just as he said, their numbers were in there. Near had a phone as well and his number was there. There was a disturbingly long list of the phone numbers for restaurants that offered take out.
"Didn't his recent housekeeper cook for him?" she asked, putting the phone down.
"He didn't have one. He lived here by himself. Those are all of his favorite take out places."
Georgie was confused. "So why hire a housekeeper now? Why me?"
Agent Anthony Rester allowed his stoic facade drop. A smile curled his lips and a softer, more genuine expression seeped into his pale blue eyes. "You are going to be much more than a housekeeper. You said it yourself that he needed a friend. A lot of things are changing for Near. We're not sure how well he's going to handle these changes. He's always been...different."
"Different how?" she inquired, anxiety causing her whole body to tense.
"He's a little socially awkward. He's not really good at relating to others or talking to people normally sometimes. He's also quite a bit emotionally stunted, unable to express his emotions freely," he explained, hoping he was getting the point across without painting a negative picture of Near in her mind.
"I see. So he won't like snap and become a serial killer or something right?"
"No," he chuckled lightly. "He's not suffering from a type of psychosis. He's just underdeveloped and a little immature." His expression hardened, the muscles in his jaw fluttering as if something were alive under his skin. "Georgie, Near catches serial killers and other criminals for a living. He would never become one. Have you ever heard of Kira?"
"Yes, I vaguely remember that name. He was the serial killer who killed prisoners in Japan right?"
Oh, Kira had been so much more than that. Her oversimplified take on the matter was almost comical. That's how Kira had begun but then there was a whole lot more to the story. So many details and incidents that the world didn't know about had taken place during that case. Things that both the Japanese and American governments had buried deep within encrypted computer files. But that was all in a day's work in the CIA; saving the clueless citizens from threats that they will never know existed. The agents were the ultimate unsung heroes. Near was a savior of the human race, and they would never know his name or his face. Anthony Rester intended to keep it that way for Near's safety.
"Kira killed many investigators, one who Near knew personally, who tried to bring him to justice. Do you know who finally stopped him?" Agent Rester asked, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his black pants.
"Well, no," she responded, laughing nervously. "No one knows."
"You're right. And they never will. It has been my job for over a decade to make sure that doesn't happen. It has also become yours," he told her, making a crisp military turn on his heel to stride toward the door. "Good day, Miss Lathrop. I pray that you do not regret taking this job. We need you. Near needs you."
His parting words hung in the air like a daunting ghost that terrified her and would haunt her for the rest of her life. Georgie flung her arms out wide, flopping back on the bed. She stared up at the ghastly white ceiling.
"Holy shit, Georgina Mae, what have you gotten yourself into?" she questioned herself out loud, using the name her mother had always called her when she was in big trouble as a child. Pushing up on her elbows, she looked around the room. Paint. She would need paint. Maybe a light robin's egg blue or the barest shade of green to give the room a calming air. Sheets, curtains, throw rugs, towels, hangers...so many things to buy.
Georgie hopped up from the bed to go down to clean the refrigerator. She wanted to cook for Near tonight, have a meal waiting for him when he arrived home. She felt like Old Mother Hubbard after examining the contents of the cupboard because it was terribly bare. As a matter of fact, she doubted anything had ever been put in there. She opened the refrigerator and was immediately slapped in the face with the odor of something in a late stage of decay. Four sixteen ounce bottles of water, Chinese take out cartons half full of rancid food, Styrofoam containers that reeked, clear plastic containers of mysterious substances, four cans of soda, and a box of baking soda were the contents of the refrigerator. After going through every drawer in the kitchen, she found a dish towel to use as personal protective equipment for the removal of the obnoxious, and possibly hazardous, leftovers. Once that was done, she added dish towels and plastic gloves to her mental list of things to buy. Then it was time to go shopping.
Georgie returned to the house a few minutes after four. She brought up the grocery bags first, two hooked on each arm to enable her to keep her balance as she ran up the stairs. After unloading them, she started cooking. Thankfully there was a basic set of pots and pans. She had forgotten to check before leaving. She was making beef tips and mushroom gravy with mashed potatoes for dinner. It was her favorite. She hoped Near liked it since she had absolutely no idea what kind of food he liked. The beef tips could simmer while she was bringing up everything else for her bedroom. She had just finished making up her bed with a luxurious set of Egyptian cotton sheets in a periwinkle blue color when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
"What's that smell?" Near asked her when she poked her head out of her room.
"Dinner. Are you hungry?" she inquired, running down the stairs. She still had to cook and mash the potatoes. She was cutting up the potatoes to toss them in the pot of water when he walked into the kitchen.
"You're cooking?" He came to stand next to her so he could watch what she was doing.
"Would you like to help?" She turned the knife around, holding it with her thumb and forefinger on the handle just behind the blade, to extend the handle to him.
"I don't know," he mumbled, stepping back from her as if she had shoved the blade toward him. "I've never done anything like this before."
"There's a first time for everything. Come on," she urged him, holding the knife handle out to him. "I'll teach you how to cut potatoes."
"O-okay," he stammered, slowly curling his fingers around the knife handle.
Georgie stood behind him, laying her hand over his that was gripping the knife so tightly his knuckles were turning white. She picked up a scrubbed but unpeeled potato, positioning it on the cutting board in front of him.
"What are we making?" he asked as she guided his hand through the first cut, dividing the potato lengthwise.
"Mashed potatoes," she answered, flipping one of the halves onto its flat side to begin moving his hand to make several more lengthwise cuts.
"You don't peel them first?" He stared at his hand as she led him through making several more slices width wise, turning the potato into little cubes.
"Nope. The skin is where most of the nutrients are. Besides, it adds an interesting flavor and texture to the mashed potatoes," she explained, scooping up the diced pieces to drop them in the pot. "You do this one alone. Loosen your grip a bit. Keep it firm but you don't have to strangle the knife to use it."
"Why are we cutting them up like this?" His movements were slow but precision, mimicking hers exactly.
"Hey, you're a fast learner," she complimented, raking the pieces into her hand and placing another potato for him to slice. "They cook much faster and more evenly this way. Doing it like this, we'll have yummy, creamy mashed potatoes in twenty minutes instead of lumpy, unevenly cooked potatoes in an hour."
"This is kind of fun," he said, chopping faster.
Georgie stood beside him, carefully watching over him to make sure he did not cut himself. She instructed him to curl his fingertips to hold the potato to prevent accidentally chopping one of them off with an overzealous slice. While the potatoes were cooking, she showed him how to set a table placement with dishes and silverware. The setting was simple with a plate, a napkin, a fork, and a glass. He seemed pleased to help out and interested in everything no matter how mundane the task since these were things he had not done before in his life. She enjoyed his childlike curiosity and eagerness for the new experience. After rinsing off the potato masher she had just bought, she handed it to him.
"Here, you do the honors," she said, stifling the temptation to giggle when he stared at the cooking utensil as if it were an alien weapon.
"What do I do with it?" he asked as she dropped a stick of butter into the potatoes.
"It's a potato masher. These are potatoes. We're making mashed potatoes," she said, pouring cream into the pot. "Figure it out."
Near glanced at her, the potato masher, and then the pot. He held the device over the pot before slamming it down with enough force to splash cream over the side onto the stove top.
"Whoa there, Slugger," she giggled, wiping up the mess with a damp wash cloth. She stood behind him again, placing her hands over his to show him how to use it correctly. She could feels the lean muscles of his biceps flexing against the inside of her arms as they made rhythmic up and down movements.
"How do I know when it's ready?"
"When the lumps are gone." She lowered her arms from his, peering around him to get a glimpse of what was going on in the pot. "Close. Just a little more, and we'll be ready to eat."
"Can I help you cook dinner tomorrow night?" he inquired while she was carrying the pan of meat and gravy to the round kitchen table.
"Sure. Anything in particular you would like to eat?"
"No. Not really. Here, look." He proudly held up the pot by the handles, showing her his handiwork.
"Fantastic," she complimented, watching a slow smile spread across his thin lips. So he could smile. When he did, he looked mischievous and conceited all at the same time. He was adorable. Not a term she would usually use in reference to a grown man, but it fit him. She took the pot and set it on the cast iron trivet shaped like an owl sitting on the table. "Let's eat."
They ate in silence. Near seemed to be totally focused on the food, relishing each bite like a food critic. His intensity and close scrutiny of every morsel was disconcerting to her. He made faces at times that she could not tell if they came from disgust or delight. She became so unnerved, her belly churning with apprehension, waiting for his opinion of the food that she could not eat.
"What do you think?" she queried finally, taking a sip of her water.
"It's good," he replied without enthusiasm and with a mouth full of food.
Georgie smiled and started eating. She would take it as a positive compliment and be happy. Obviously he liked it because he had not bothered to stop eating to issue the three syllables in response to her question. After dinner, she washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen while he retreated upstairs. She was not sure where he went or what he was doing and did not feel it was her place yet to ask. Once the kitchen was clean, she went upstairs to her bedroom to take a shower. Afterwards, dressed in her usual pajamas of shorts and a tank top and went back downstairs for a glass of wine. Near still had not appeared from wherever he had gone.
"Near? Near?" she called out, but there was no answer. She could hear tapping like fingers typing on a keyboard so she followed the sound to his office. The door had been left open a little so she peeked through the small sliver of space. He was sitting at his desk typing furiously on the keyboard of the lap top. From her vantage point, she could see he was sitting in the chair with one knee pulled up to his chest, the other leg curled to the side. How unusual. He suddenly stopped typing and stared at the screen. From the way his eyes moved she could tell he was reading. She rapped on the door lightly using one knuckle.
"Yes?" he called, staring at the door as she pushed it open a little further.
"Do you need anything? I'm about to go to my room and read a bit, then I'm going to sleep," she said, holding the steady gaze of his sharp eyes. He always seemed to be thinking.
"I'm fine. Thank you for dinner. Good night," he said a little brusquely, bordering on rude. She felt as if she had interrupted something and he could not wait for her to leave.
"Good night," she rejoined, closing the door behind her. Just a little socially awkward. No more so than many people she came into contact on the street everyday though. Perhaps it was situations with more than one person or people he did not know well where he had problems. So far, she did not see a problem with his behavior. She went to her bedroom where she planned to stay for the rest of the night. She was exhausted. Her first day gone surprisingly well.