The Children's Corner

Chapter 18

Jack continues down the tunnel until he can hear activity around a bend ahead. Then, pulling a miniaturized infrared detector from his pocket, he studies the screen. Glowing blobs indicate six humans. He can also make out emissions typical of electrical equipment. Finally, he checks his smartwatch for how far he's come underground. Bullseye! The activity he detects is right below the repair facility.

Cautiously, Jack snakes an almost invisible optical fiber camera through the tunnel, checking the view on his phone. The image shows workers with respirators and gloves weighing and doling out a substance into bags. The heat sealers had to be putting out the IR signatures that Jack detected.

After slipping a high-efficiency mask over his mouth and nose, Jack captures several images of the packaging operation. Then using a tiny battery-run pump, he draws air through a filter to grab a sample of any drug that's airborne. After stowing his equipment, he moves forward just enough to get his through-the-earth transmitters within range of any chatter by the drug dispensers.

Wary of a re-engagement with Mr. Shotgun, Jack decides to take a side tunnel. His exit will be a more lengthy walk but also well concealed in a walled garden. He moves ahead carefully, alert to any sounds or sights indicating other habitation. Hearing voices, he reaches for his RDD before realizing the pitch is too high for adults. Even with a sleep gun, he'd rather not shoot children if he can avoid it. Re-employing his flexible camera, he grabs a look at the assembly.

Jack's no authority on kids, but to him, all but a teenager, probably left as a caretaker, look under six. Some are almost babies. This must be one of the tunnels' encampments of the homeless. No doubt, the adults are above looking for work or scavenging what they can. As far as Jack can tell, except for a flashlight, the teen is unarmed, and the younger children don't pose a hazard to him. But if the drug operation discovers the encampment, the distributors wouldn't be coming with tranquilizer darts. Children and adults would end up below ground – permanently.

Carefully stowing his weaponry out of sight, John continues down the tunnel. "I'm not going to hurt anyone," Jack assures the teen who bravely puts herself between him and the younger children. I'm just coming through to get out. I have a job up there."

She nods, letting him pass, but Jack can feel her eyes on his back as he moves away. Good girl. He would do the same in her place. As soon as he emerges into the garden, Jack pulls out his phone, not entirely sure who to call. He's never had to worry about homeless children before, at least not on U.S. soil. He settles for sending a text to Azra. If she doesn't know who to call either, it won't take her long to find out.

"You need sensory memory," Martha instructs Alexis.

"There's nothing wrong with my motor skills. So how do I get it?"

"We could get you drunk," Martha suggests. "Once we get you to the point where you can't touch your nose or walk a straight line, you'll be in the zone."

"I'll also be in the zone to have a hangover afterward," Alexis protests. "I haven't had one of those since I graduated high school, and I don't want to spend an hour with my head in the toilet."

"That would be sensory memory too," Martha argues. "But we can go at it another way. Actors use weights and other devices to change the way they move all the time. To the truly skilled, it's a crutch, but it can be part of the process. Now, just how inconvenienced are you supposed to be?"

"According to the profile of my character, I can't throw or catch a ball. When I play board games, I knock the pieces over. And I trip over and bump into things."

Martha nods. "I worked with an actor who ran into problems like that once. He was playing a space pirate and had to wear an eyepatch. So suddenly, he had no depth perception. And his costume was bulky enough to interfere with the way he moved his arms. So, we'll cover one of your eyes and…."

"I can put on three sweaters, so I can't move my arms as well," Alexis interjects.

Martha claps her hands together. "That's my girl! Spend as much time like that as you can, and remember the sensations for your role."

Alexis wraps her arms around her grandmother and kisses her cheek. "You really are a wonderful acting coach."

"Yes, well, you can tell the ingenues that the next time they ignore my advice."

The creases nudging the edges of Rick's nose deepen as he reads through Liz's rendition of Storm's inner dialogue. "Suddenly, as if some capricious god flipped a switch, Clara stiffens in Derrick's arms. "' It's late, and we both have to begin our mission at sunrise. We should get some sleep.'"

"He tries to pull her closer. 'No problem. We're already in bed."'

"'I meant in separate beds. I'm tired, Storm. We can save the celebration for after we find the yellowcake.'"

"'If that's what you want,' he agrees, mystified. He watches as Clara disappears through the door of the adjoining room. What the hell happened? He thought he said what she wanted to hear and stroked the spots that sent frissons skittering through her veins. Even her walk has changed. She left him without that twitch of her hips that foreshadowed pleasures to come. It was as if he went from a long-time lover to just another mission partner. What did he do? Or what didn't he do? Why couldn't she just tell him? Damn! He sure as hell isn't going to get much sleep now."

Liz stares over the table at Rick. "You don't like it."

"I like some of it. That part about the twitch of her hips is pretty Storm-like. And he would be confused. I just don't know how much sleep he'd lose over the behavior of a woman. One of the things I like about Storm is he doesn't screw himself up that way. I think my readers do too."

"Because it's part of the fantasy." Liz guesses. "If they toss and turn all night wondering what went wrong with their relationships, they love a guy who can ignore his personal angst when he needs to."

"Right. Storm gets the job done, regardless of all of that – just as they wish they could."

"And you wish you could?" Liz probes.

"Don't you?" Rick asks. "Doesn't everyone? Isn't that what escapist literature is all about – not what really happens, but what you wish could happen?"

"Maybe," Liz considers, "but your readers also want someone they can identify with. They cry with the woman who holds a man she thinks is dying in her arms. They can relate to Derrick's confusion and still get off on it when charges in anyway and saves the day."

"I'll go with confusion," Rick allows. "I've spent a considerable part of my life surrounded by women, and they still bewilder me all the time. You can make Derrick as confused as you like. But don't get too soppy about it. Let's keep the bones of the fantasy intact. However, some of the other principals at Black Pawn think it might be a cool idea to put out a series of Rook's romance novels – the ones he writes as Victoria St. Clair. You can save the mush for those. Agreed?"

Liz grins. "Agreed."