Ghost Consultant
Chapter 10: Converging Lines
(September 30-October 1, 2016)
Amy Joy Hardesty, nowadays generally known as Agent A.J. Hazard, had told Dipper the absolute truth: She had scanned both motel rooms and found no bugs, no listening devices, nothing to make her suspicious that someone was listening in.
Not that she had expected to find anything. In six years, she'd never once found one, but then the other intelligence services, the ones that might want to snoop on the Agency's business, ignored them—they were off to the side, with their own budget that did not depend on appropriations but was completely off the books. They technically reported directly to the President, but no one remembered the last time a Director had in fact done that. The general rule was "If the world is not in imminent danger of ending, the President doesn't have to know."
The former Director—no one seemed to know his name, but everyone called him the Professor—had reined in some of the, um, enthusiasm that tends to arise in groups like theirs. The new man, who didn't mind if people knew him as Dr. Pines, was continuing that effort. Agent Hazard appreciated that and understood why she, normally operating out of central California, had been detached to accompany young Agent Dipper to Minnesota.
The Midwest section, with enthusiastic but unruly agents like Trigger essentially running their own cowboy operations, still needed to be brought back into line. She approved of the new Director's determination to do just that.
However, though Agent Hazard had not found any listening devices, that was not to say she had not planted any. In fact, she had left an unobtrusive little postcard on the desk in Dipper's room, "Places of Worship in East Chestnut County." It was as dull-looking as possible, no photos, no art, just a list of churches. And it was not made of paper, but of a very sophisticated printed circuit sandwiched in between the two printed layers. It could pick up any voice anywhere in the unit. More, another component could isolate a cell-phone signal and with luck could amplify it as well.
As Agent Hazard waited for the delivery guy to bring the burgers—he would bring hers first, so she'd have a chance to check him out for any hint of something off about him—she donned a pair of earbuds and comfortably listened in on Dipper's conversation with someone named Wendy. Son of a gun, the kid had been telling the truth about being engaged—she began by asking, "What's up for the weekend, fiancé?" She had an interesting voice, kind of laid-back and gliding, with an edge of humor.
Like all Agents, Hazard was a suspicious so-and-so. But listening closely, she got no whiff of code words or underlying secret meanings. Unless the puzzling mention of gnomes meant something, but she supposed that was, at most, a reference to some kind of teen gang up in Oregon. Might be worth a quick check, though, after this poltergeist business was cleared.
The two young lovers got a bit mushy, but Hazard heard the conversation through. Then Agent Dipper called his sister Mabel. Hmm, something seemed a little off there. He asked her, "How's it going, Eliza?"
And she answered him in a convincing British accent.
How could one twin be American, one British? Unless they were separated at birth? She made a note to ask for permission to examine the siblings' family background.
That conversation was short, and in the end, Agent Hazard was left with the impression that the twins, Mabel and Agent Dipper, were of different temperaments.
As soon as Dipper ended his call, a knock came at Hazard's door. Agent Hazard used the peephole and saw a delivery guy, a teen, shifting from foot to foot. She opened the door, accepted both meals, and tipped the boy.
He was surly, and though the tip had been generous, he didn't thank her. He got in the delivery car, backed out, and took off. She did a quick scan of the food with the harmful substances detector, found nothing worse than the usual hamburger levels of fat and salt, and took Dipper's burger next door, along with a canned soft drink she'd removed from the prepacked suitcase the Agency had delivered to her.
She knocked, he opened the door. "Did you check through the peephole?" she asked.
He looked confused. He'd removed his shoes and stood there in sock feet. "Uh, no."
"Always check. And even if you see it's me, ask, 'Who is it?' That's a rule. Here you go. I never heard of this brand of soda."
"Pitt's!" Dipper said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "It's only available in Oregon!"
She smiled at his childlike enthusiasm. "Then I guess somebody in Oregon's watching out for you. What time are you meeting the contact at the restaurant tomorrow?"
"Eight," he said.
"Need a wake-up call?"
He shook his head. "I've already set the alarm on my phone for seven."
"You driving to pick her up?"
"No, she said she'll ride her bike."
"OK, then, see you tomorrow. Enjoy the burger."
Damn, a bicycle. One more detail somebody had overlooked. Agent Hazard went back to her room, made a quick phone call, and then discovered that the burger and fries were at least still acceptably warm. She hardly noticed the taste—she'd had far too many fast-food meals while on stake-outs.
In his room, Dipper ate the burger and fries—not bad at all, pretty tasty, in fact—and drank the room-temperature Pitt's, the peachy taste taking him right back to the Falls. That done, he took a warm shower—airplane travel always left him feeling slightly greasy—brushed his teeth, inspected his stubble in the mirror, and put on his stupid pajamas (Mom had insisted he take them, and having read horror stories about bedbugs in motels, he thought they might be a good idea), and went to bed.
By then it was nearly midnight, though by his internal clock it was still only about ten, Pacific time. He didn't feel all that sleepy, but after deciding that he needed the rest, he used the autosuggestion techniques he'd learned to slip down into a sort of twilight state—if not the Mindscape, at least into a dreamscape.
He had a mild nightmare of himself and Eloise, both of them twelve again, lost in the endlessly multiplying, infinitely branching hallway of the Westminster House as it tried with determination to kill them. They couldn't find their way out, and as they fled, breathless and with hearts ready to burst, they heard behind them something pursuing them.
"Don't let go!" she begged, clutching his hand so hard it hurt.
The dream petered out with them still running and desperate and nothing bad happening, no Big Bad bursting in to attack them. More frustration than terror, in the end.
That's the trouble with dreams. The plots tend to be lousy.
At seven, the phone chimed and he threw back the covers and rolled out of bed, momentarily disoriented. Oh, yeah, he wasn't in the Shack or in his room in Piedmont, but way out in the countryside of Winnemunka, Minnesota.
He stretched, took another shower, washing his hair with the tiny bottle of shampoo/conditioner thoughtfully provided by the Gopher Inn, and then, feeling foolish, broke out the eyebrow fluffer and touched up both brows and stubble. "I look dumb," he told his reflection. He used the motel hair dryer and his comb to arrange his coiffure, as Mabel called it, in her approved style.
Then into the suit. He'd found a buffing cloth for shoes in the pack of toiletries left for him in the bathroom, and he gave the black shoes a little polish. They gleamed already, a lot shinier and nicer than any other shoes he owned. And they were comfortable, as if made specially for him, which for all he knew they might have been—the Agency was full of quirky touches.
He carefully re-combed his hair and used the makeup to cover his birthmark. And, oh, yes, the black-rimmed spectacles. He put them on and checked himself out in the mirror.
OK, not too shabby. He told his reflection, "We in the Agency are older than we look." And then he got a fit of the giggles. Mabel was the actor in the family, not him!
Dad had advised him to leave a tip for the maid—though his dad thought he and Ford would be staying in a motel either in northern California or southwestern Oregon, not all the way out here in Minnesota—and Dipper left a five-dollar bill where Dad had told him: "On the pillow, not on the desk or the bathroom counter. If it's on the pillow, the maid will know it's for her, not just a bill you forgot. Don't make her feel like a thief."
There you go, nameless maid. Thanks for tidying up.
Taking his laptop and the compact kit of anomaly detector, goggles, and anti-poltergeist materials, he ventured outside. It was warmer than he'd thought it would be, with a sky streaked with some faint high cirrus clouds. The sun was up, and he saw trees with autumnal colors already showing.
Huh. Only one car, so that must be his. He did a walk-around and stopped behind the car, surprised: a bike rack had been added. He was sure it hadn't been there when they took their luggage out. He popped the trunk with his key fob, and despite the rack, it opened. He stowed the ghost kit and laptop there and slammed the lid. Very sophisticated bike rack, probably specially made, he decided.
Preparing to be tazed, he put the key in the driver's door lock, realizing a second too late that he could have unlocked it with the fob.
No matter, he didn't get shocked. He checked his inner jacket pocket for the credentials—yep, there was the trifold—and then started the engine. The car failed to explode, which he took as a good sign.
He carefully backed out of the slot, drove around to the front of the motel, and realized that the Gopher Inn parking lot directly adjoined that for Sven's Pancake Palace and that, in fact, he could simply cross over without having to go into the street. Feeling a little foolish, he parked in the restaurant lot after having driven maybe one twentieth of a mile.
He carefully locked the car and went inside Sven's Pancake Palace.
The restaurant smelled of yeast, maple syrup, and breakfast. It was overall a sweet aroma. Mabel would have loved it. A crowd of people were chowing down on pancakes, waffles, and other dishes, while chattering cheerfully. Many of them looked dressed for a day's work, others for a relaxing Saturday in casual clothes.
He looked around the dining room and saw Agent Hazard alone in a small booth for two, looking like an immaculately groomed businesswoman. She caught his gaze and subtly shook her head.
A hostess, wearing a cheesy uniform—frilly, starchy pink skirt, white blouse, and a tiara—greeted him and chirped, "Table for one, sir?"
"I'm—" Dipper stifled a cough and then tried again in his gruff, whispery voice: "I'm meeting someone, thanks. I'll wait here if you don't mind."
"Two for breakfast, then?"
"Two, yes."
He stood in the small foyer, looking out and checking the time. It was nearly eight, and he wondered if Eloise would be—oh. There she was, having emerged from a side street and waiting to cross the highway.
Taking advantage of a break in traffic, she came biking into the lot, reminding Dipper of how Wendy, at fifteen, had ridden her bike. Both girls wore helmets, and both helmets were unadorned with flowers or other girly stuff. He grinned.
Eloise prudently chained her bike to a newspaper box, then came toward the door, taking off her helmet and shaking out her light brown hair. He opened the door for her, and she came in past him, muttering, "Thanks." He followed her as she went inside and stood looking around the tables.
"Uh—Eloise, I'm right here," he said, forgetting his raspy voice.
She spun and gaped at him with round blue eyes. "Dipper! Oh, my God, I didn't—you look so different! You've got a beard!"
"Just a disguise," he said.
"I like it. Makes you look . . . kinda dangerous," she said with a grin. She reached for his hand. "It's so good to see you again."
"You too," he said.
"Oh—" she hugged him tightly, her soft breasts against his chest. "Thanks so much for coming! Now I'm not scared anymore."
He gently disengaged. "I hope I can help. Uh, here's the waitress."
Eloise blushed a little.
The same hostess carried a couple of big menus. "Is this the whole party?" she asked.
"Yes. Table for two, please," Dipper said, making Eloise glance at him as he slipped back into the low voice.
"Is a booth OK?"
"Fine," Eloise said.
"This way, please." The waitress led them to a small booth directly behind Agent Hazard, and Dipper supposed that had been pre-arranged. She could listen in without being obvious.
They got settled, the waitress asked what they wanted to drink, and Dipper nodded to Eloise. She said, "Coffee, please, and cream."
"Same for me, thanks," Dipper said. He tilted his head. "You've changed, too. You look great, Eloise."
She shrugged. "Well, a lot of it's makeup."
He shook his head, smiling. "Most of it's you, and it's all beautiful. OK, for now let's forget about exorcisms and ghosts and stuff. Let's just have breakfast. What's good here?"
"I've never had anything bad here," she said.
Dipper hoped that was an omen, not only for breakfast, but for the investigation to come.