three)

The snap of the screen door closing wrestled the lids of Marcia's eyes open. Three feet away, behind the low back of the couch, Marcia caught her brother's hesitant glance.

"Hey, sis." He paused at the base of the sofa, long enough to give a playful smirk. "I see you're still attempting to shrug away the aftereffects of last night's romp in the city, huh?"

From below her neck, Marcia grabbed a decorative pillow and threw it squarely at her older brother's arrogant face. It must've been his CIA-trained reflexes that enabled him to catch the pillow before it did any damage. He gave a small, wimpy laugh, both thrilled and startled that he'd managed to flare her temper so easily.

"All right," he said, and replaced the pillow by her feet. "I'll be sure to remember that a hung-over Marcia Lee is a grumpy Marcia Lee."

"Shut it, Arlo," she hissed, struggling to keep her eyes closed against the streams of sunlight. But despite the plea, and it was quite a plea, she felt her brother's presence continue. "What are you still doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you have left for Washington by now?"

"Nah," he said with one shake of his head, "Dad cornered me this morning and said he's got something planned for today. I'll go home tomorrow."

Arlo worked in Decryption at the Central Intelligence Agency's headquarters in the District of Columbia. While he never did anything too strenuous and difficult, not like chasing down a rogue with his feet, he remained physically fit and alert. Nevertheless, Marcia knew she could out-wrestle, out-shoot, out-run him any day of the week, even during a substantial hangover. Through their childhood, being only fifteen months apart, they'd often competed against one another, in every possible way. But mostly they competed to gain their father's hard-earned approval. And apparently, their competitiveness had been noticed by the United States government. After cruising through college on a state scholarship, Arlo went to work for the CIA. Marcia's college tenure, spent at a woman's school in Virginia, ended with a visit from something some would consider a step-up from the CIA: the National Security Agency. With the way things in the government were going at the time of her initiation, however, Marcia hadn't been able to disclose her employers. Instead, her family, her father and brother, believed she worked for the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms bureau (ATF). In Colorado Springs, Colorado. A fact that'd always seemed a bit fishy to Arlo Lee.

But she wasn't in Colorado Springs.

Knowing that the upcoming Saturday intended to be one of leisure, Marcia ducked out of the offices early Friday evening and took a flight to Washington. Arlo picked her up at the airport after he left work. They hit the town, so to speak, going out to dinner with some friends they'd known since high school. It was well beyond the hour of one when the two of them arrived, Marcia somewhat sober, in Bridgeville, Delaware, where the family home was located. Their father, Danil Lee, had been begging them to visit, and to make certain their visits would coincide. It'd been ages, practically a succession of years, since he'd seen his son and daughter together at the same time, in the same place, without the use of vidphones or such equipment. There they were, in the flesh, and the gratitude on their father's impassive, distinctly Asian face was not much of a reward. Not at first. But Marcia knew he must be glad to see them. She was afraid he'd be lonely out here, in this small Delaware town, with nothing to do but tinker with his toys, and occasionally messing in the garden when fickle Atlantic coastal weather permitted. He didn't seem bored, not that Marcia's intuition detected.

Arlo, on the other hand, was acting ornery and far below his age. She wondered what'd gotten into him. Competitive or not, there was always a rotten streak in Arlo, a rebellion of sorts. She supposed, psychologically, that it had something do with losing their mother early on in life. He'd been four. Marcia three. The loss must've upset his equilibrium or understanding of justice in the world.

Marcia set her head back to the pillow. Forget about it, she told herself. You think too much. You know you do. How many times has James looked at you and thought of telling you to stop thinking? He even knows when you're thinking. He probably knows you're thinking that . . .

She squeezed the pillow over her head and gritted her teeth. It wasn't so easy to stop thinking about work, even when work, and all the people she knew through it, were several states away.

In the kitchen, across from the living room where she was reclined, Marcia heard Arlo fill a glass of water. The soothing twittering of the finches in the dinning room aviary could be distinguished easily in the quiet house. As soon as she'd walked in the night before, Marcia noticed the birds, startled that she'd forgotten all about them. Dad loved finches, thought they were fascinating. He'd built a giant wooden and screen aviary, out of plans from inside his own mind, and filled it with thirteen birds. The aviary was a natural habitat for the finches, complete with growing dwarf trees, a waterfall that glissaded into a shimmering pool, and a timer that released food to them at standard intervals. It was hard to tell what he'd been more proud of: the beauty of the finches or the beauty of the aviary.

Dad was something of an inventor. Only his inventions weren't particularly practical in any sense. But he liked to tinker. He'd what Marcia would've called 'an honorary wizard', meaning he could do just about anything if he gave it enough thought. Like building the aviary. Like the strange, primitive ultralights he built in a workshop out in the backyard. He'd built a few things for the War Department back around 2030, during the Common War, which the States were not involved in, theoretically. (Philosophically and monetarily, Marcia figured, were always different matters entirely.) Danil Lee's minor inventions for the War Department had probably been the main reason his offspring were kept under tight surveillance through their growing up years. It certainly wasn't because they were absolute geniuses. They were intelligent, certainly. They were clever, certainly. But so were thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of other students across the U.S. and Territories. It wasn't just luck that the Lee children had both gone marching off into government employment.

Of course, Danil Lee's other vocation was real estate. He was a part-time realtor in and around Bridgeville. Business was slow. Bridgeville was a small town. Most of the homes Dad sold were vacation "shacks" for plutocratic Washington and Gotham heavy-hitters.

When Marcia called to Arlo, she found out that's where Dad had gone, to show a house. "Said he'd be back around one." Arlo's shape appeared in the doorway, glass of water still in hand. "It's almost one now. You'd better get dressed. He won't like seeing you in your purple p-jays when he gets back." The face darkened just by a trace. "You know how Dad is about the 'early to rise, early to win' attitude."

The vague nod was read and understood. Marcia waved a limp arm his direction. "Could you get me one of those?"

He figured she meant the glass of water. "Sure thing. Aspirin?"

"Oh, lord," she groaned, "yes, please."

Arlo returned a second later with an aspirin and a bottle of spring water. He sat beside her on the couch, after she'd raised herself up with some difficulty and poorly-stifled moans.

"What was up with you last night, anyway?" he inquired as softly as he could. His curiosity was far less subtle than his sister's. But he supposed she'd learned the fine art of deception through deft ATF training. "You're not supposed to drink alcohol, according to ATF rules. At least that's the excuse you used at cousin Maria's wedding."

"Well," she'd swallowed back the pill and ignored the throbbing in her head, "I do work for the ATF." Not really. It was a big lie. But she knew the Bureau of ATF had similar rules to those of the NSA. Recreational alcohol was off limits. It was there in the handbook, the Agent Rules of Conduct. Page 26, paragraph 2. So what had made her ignore the rules and indulge in one too many glasses of zinfandel? She dipped her chin to her collarbone and squeezed her eyes shut. Work. Work had been driving her crazy. Work had shoved her gently and not unwillingly into glass after glass of wine the night before.

She slathered on a somewhat believable smile when her head lifted. "Celebrating. I'm getting a promotion at work." Okay, not exactly a lie, but not wholly the truth, either. Since recruitment into the NSA, Marcia had learned to lie to her family. It was easiest to lie to Arlo, who kept his own secrets, whatever they were. To her father, whom she always looked at straight in the eye, mendacity was too challenging.

"Really? A promotion?" He didn't sound as skeptical as his twisted smile and leer advised. The hand at her arm squeezed affectionately. "Good going, sis. Did you tell Dad?"

Marcia was going to respond but a query jostled the air before she could.

"Tell me what?"

Danil Lee had entered by way of the front door. An odd place for him to enter, Marcia thought, as he usually came through the door out of the kitchen, linking the garage and the house. But she deduced the reason for this anomaly quickly. He'd left his sedan parked in the driveway. He was expecting them to leave right away. If he caught her in purple pajamas at one in the afternoon. . . .

Too late. As soon as he entered the living room, he was agog at the sight before his eyes. "Marcia! Why aren't you dressed yet?"

Arlo, to Marcia's shock, tried defending her in his own older-brother fashion. "She's been feeling kind of under the weather today."

"Humph!" Danil clearly wasn't buying this. "I know why she is, too! Too much drink! Both of you, last night, too much drink!"

"Dad—." Arlo had risen his hands to bring order to this burst, but his sister made a gesture to cut him off.

"It's all right, Arlo." She faced her father, and, as per usual, looked him right in the eye. "Yes, I had too much to drink last night and am living with the consequences today. I'm not used to drinking." The latter words added mostly to herself. She really wasn't used to consuming anything made from fermented food. The thought made her stomach lurch in all the wrong directions. She made a rush to the bathroom. And the only good thing about sitting on the cold tile floor in front of the toilet was the abrupt end it brought to the row with her father.

Danil allowed her time to shower properly and dress with care. He was trimming one of the trees in the aviary, the birds twittering around him, happy at the unexpected gift of his company, when Marcia reentered. The smile from her father told her he approved.

"You're feeling better?" he said, withdrawing from the aviary, pruning shears and small branches in his gloved hands.

"Much," she managed to say. "Do I look all right?" She fanned out the skirt of her two-piece dress, down to the strapped pink and white shoes she was wearing. Marcia hated wearing dresses, but for her father, who always wanted them to look their best, she would suffer through flared skirts, slips, even hose. But she'd left off the hose. A slip, a skirt, and some kind of torturous under-wire bra were enough to endure.

He nodded his agreement. "Very nice. You should dress like this more often. Then, you would get a date with a nice man."

It took all her effort not to roll her eyes. Silently, as she did all the times when her father was in the mood to poke fun at her long reign of singleness, Marcia called on the strength of her mother's spirit, a bit of which must flow through her. Certainly her mother wouldn't mind that she was single. Kim Lee probably would've preferred her daughter to stay single at least until the age of thirty. In that case Marcia had three years left to enjoy. Though there were nights that came and went when Marcia abhorred being dateless, it would be a change to go out with a nice, eligible man. For a moment, her thoughts flickered to Orrin West, her NSA partner, and how he endured his dateless lifestyle. Finally, she decided that Orrin was mostly oblivious to All Things Female, unless they were dead, singers, in black and white motion pictures, or a teenage girl named Rosalie Rowen. And, even for the latter, the idea was a bit of a stretch. Marcia was smiling before she knew what'd happened, and her father took it as a sign of conciliation.

Soon, Arlo joined them. "Good, we're ready to go," their dad declared. He pulled off the gloves and placed them in a fold-out drawer built into the bottom of the aviary. The finches were still chirping, jumping from branch to branch. Danil was telling his little "babies to behave while they were gone". Marcia flickered an amused grin to Arlo, who passed her something of the same.

"Will you tell us where we're going, Dad?" Marcia followed her brother and father out of the front door and down the sidewalk. As she'd analyzed, her father's sedan, in a shimmering slate blue, was waiting in the narrow drive. Already, a few wilted yellow leaves were clinging to the roof. The distressed trees, at the height of a summer heat wave, were shedding a few excess leaves. The Bridgeville neighborhood was old, and so were the trees. Most of the neighbors inside those old houses were old, too, once Marcia got to think about it. Her father laughed into her thoughts. Not a big laugh, he'd never do that, but his common demure chortle.

"You will see. Hop in!" He vanished into the vehicle.

Marcia threw her brother a second glance that he read accurately. Neither of them, it was discovered, knew what their old man was up to. Perhaps it was one of his tinkering projects, one he'd finished and had on display somewhere. It'd happened before. But he'd been too excited then to keep it a secret, and had phoned them about the display as soon as he'd gotten word of it himself. Danil Lee, local Bridgeville legend. And capable of keeping secrets. Marcia had always wondered where she'd gotten that from. She was careful to keep her secrets locked up tight. Not even her death would make them surface. The car was roaming down the street before she realized she was thinking too much again.

There was a suspicious smell in the sedan. Marcia sniffed the air, testing it. Above the musty scent of the air conditioner she caught an odor that was very far from ordinary.

"Dad?" she started, twisting her head to her father behind the wheel. "Have you got flowers in here?"

"Yes, yes," he nodded twice with each affirmation. "They're in the trunk. I would've hidden them better if I knew you had such a sharp sense of smell, Marcia."

She'd almost said she was sorry for stumbling upon the mystery, but held back upon noticing he was proud of her sensory acumen. For a selfish moment, she hoped Arlo noticed. Praise from their father was always subtle, but it was praise nonetheless, always appreciated no matter how it arrived. It was odd but she rarely felt stabs of guilty conscience at the times his praise clashed against her lies. The only thing she'd ever really lied about was her job. Danil Lee was pleased she worked for the government. It didn't matter what branch of government. The lie had built up over the years, so that Marcia was presently up to her neck in it. She couldn't tell him the truth now. Suppose it broke his heart that she'd kept it hidden all these years?

They passed downtown Bridgeville, the antiquity of it bringing a rush of childhood memories, all of them warm, up till they drove by the church where Mom's funeral had been held. It was off-set by the fact that cousin Maria had gotten married there. Marcia believed Maria had done that on purpose, with purity the intention as much as marriage. The ruse did work, at least a little. It was the funeral that sprung to mind first, the wedding following a few seconds later. Leave it to Maria to think of a thing like that. . . .

The car turned from the main road and onto a single lane surrounded by grassy knolls and the occasional overgrown deciduous. Marcia blinked at the scenery, horror turning to dread, dread to anger, then the anger morphing to puerile fear. She glared at her father. He noticed but didn't return the look. He was smart that way. He'd seen Marcia's terrified, annoyed looks before and knew to ignore them

Marcia supposed she had no other choice but to sit down and keep quiet about it. The last thing she wanted to do upon returning to Delaware was to visit her mother's grave. That was precisely their aim. The car turned at just the right spot, next to the stump of a long-lost oak, and came to a stop. Up a few rows was the familiar rose granite marker. Their surname was light but bold at the top, with a space below and on the right depicting Kimberly Lee's birth and death. With bile racing up again into her throat, Marcia exited. Arlo, she noticed flippantly, was concerned, too.

Dad went to the popped trunk and dragged out a generous bouquet of flowers. All sorts were there, and Marcia didn't know enough about flowers to recognize species, except for some kind of lily and a half dozen carnations. Dad peered at his reluctant brood over his shoulder.

"Come, come," he hurriedly told them. "We won't be here that long. I promise. I just thought it was time that we came here together, the three of us."

"You're right, Dad," Arlo began, hands deep in his trouser pockets. "We haven't all been here at the same time since Mom's funeral. Ages ago."

Quick thinking, brainiac, Marcia thought to herself. She wished she'd thought of it first. At least the 'you're right' part. Dad would've appreciated the concession. "I've wanted to come with you, Arlo," she said instead, hoping it'd win her some points with her father, "but you've always told me you're busy."

He knew what she was doing. Instead of instigating a verbal battle to see who would win their father's praise firstly, secondly, thirdly, and so on, he merely reached out and pinched her elbow. "And you look like a twip, all dressed up like for Sunday School."

"That," she said, deepening her tone, "was a low blow, bro!"

He twitched his mouth. It had been a low blow. "Yeah, sorry," he immediately mumbled, "I know you're not comfortable in that thing."

Anything else she may have said was silenced by the stoppage of the parade. They'd landed at Mom's grave. Dad turned to them and began breaking the large bouquet into three slightly equal parts. One chunk was handed to Arlo, the second to Marcia, Dad keeping the third for himself.

"You say hello to your mother," he told them, stern as ever, as not even standing by his wife's grave could soften him, "and tell her your thoughts. Then, we'll have lunch. Arlo, you go first." He pushed his son toward the granite.

Arlo figured he'd better be as sincere as possible, and make this look good. Marcia was onto him from the first second. She almost lost composure when Arlo gently caressed his oversized fingers across their mother's etched name. Cheater, she thought. Sycophantic pompous ass. She wondered idly if Dad was onto Arlo's over-the-top behavior, too, as he seemed to be analyzing his son in a critical way. More critical than usual. Then Arlo kissed his fingertips, touched the carved name one more time, and was up from his knees. His flowers remained at the foot of the stone. He smiled in feigned compassion to his father. Dad made a gesture to Marcia. She bowed before the marker, determined to be genuine. This was her mother, for pity's sake. She wasn't going to use her dead mother's memory to win points with her father. Didn't he love both of them, her and Arlo, the same?

"Hello, Mom," she started, thinking these were always good words of greeting. This wasn't just stone she was addressing. Her mother's body was under her, buried in the damp, cool earth. Instinctively, Marcia's fingers clutched the grass beside her knee. Buried in the earth. . . "It'd be nice if you were here, you know that? We're all of us here together, right now. Me, and Dad, and Arlo. I got a day off from work. You know how busy they keep me, don't you? And Arlo managed to make room in his over-productive social life to spend a few hours in dull, old Bridgeville. He's turned out to be kind of a git, Mom, if you ask me." She heard Arlo snicker over her shoulder, but he didn't promote further denial. "And, anyway, I'm wearing a dress. I hate them, you know that, but I do it for Dad. He thinks ladies ought to dress up once in a while. I suppose he's right. Working for, well, who I work for, sometimes I forget what it's like being a lady. Of course, some of the guys there help me not to forget. Er," her shoulders went rigid as she remembered her father was standing right behind her, and what she'd just said could be construed as very lewd. She tried to straighten out her meaning. "Of course, they ask me out on dates and things, but I'm too in love with my job. My partner's great, too. He's a real nutcase. Kind of like how your dad was a nutcase. And our handler is," finding the right word for James Bennett was difficult, "he's dedicated. That keeps us motivated. Most of my life is about my work. But I like being here, back in Delaware, back in Bridgeville, back with the family. I think you'd be proud of us, Mom, the way we've stuck together after you had to leave us. We probably don't see each other as much as we should, and Arlo and I really don't come back to Delaware as often as we should, but when we are here, we really make it count. Anyway," Marcia set the flowers down, feeling exploited and clumsy, "we miss you."

She returned to her feet somberly, and Dad touched her shoulder and patted. As soon as the old man turned to say his piece to the stone, Marcia flung Arlo a winning grin. His eyes tightened. Yes, he seemed to say, fine, sis, you've won this round. But just remember which of us has the over-productive social life.

They were back in the car after Dad's inaudible murmurs to Kim's grave. They traveled to the west side of Bridgeville, along the freeway, and came to a halt in the stuffed parking lot of a local Chinese restaurant. Cousin Maria's restaurant.

Inside, the restaurant was bustling as it always would be on a Saturday afternoon. Maria came out of hiding from the cooking pit and embraced them all.

"Your party's already arrived, Uncle Dan," Maria told the patriarch. She grabbed some menus, personally escorting them to their common table, a half-circle in the back corner, far from the noise of the kitchens and front entrance.

Marcia's knees almost buckled as she noticed the middle-aged woman and young man with her. This was their party? But they were strangers. A suspicious eye coiled to her father. He was smiling and greeting the two already seated. Obviously, not strangers to him. And not about to be to her, either.

Dad gestured first to the woman, addressing his son and daughter. "This is my friend, Madeline Brooke. Madeline, these are my children. This is Arlo, and this is Marcia."

Marcia inclined her head and said her "How do you do?" pleasantly enough. Arlo mimicked her. He, too, was a bit uncomfortable. More curious than uncomfortable. One of his CIA traits, curiosity. Marcia learned defense at the NSA. Defense. Another way of saying that she distrusted everything until all the facts were in. Suddenly, a knot twisted in her stomach, remembering the request to transfer, the how and the why it had come about. Mostly the why. . .

"And this is her son, Charles Brooke. They will be our guests for lunch today."

Marcia's arm was grabbed as she was led into the booth. Her father's intention was quite clear: Marcia would sit next to Charles Brooke. Her eyes raced across this attractive man in front of her, preened in a fine suit, and glanced in a woebegone way at his left hand. No trace of a wedding band. So that was what her father had been up to, a blind date of sorts. Marcia's insides squirmed again. The how and the why of her request to transfer numbed her almost completely.

"I'm pleased to finally meet you, Miss Lee," Mr. Brooke was saying.

"Finally?" she echoed, trying to bring needed strength into her monotone voice. "You've known my father for a while, have you?"

"A few months," he replied pleasantly. Even his smile was pleasant. He leaned in a little to share a confidence. "I think they planned this get-together so we offspring would have a chance to meet."

Because of her intuition, Marcia flew right to the heart of this problem. She'd been wrong. Her father wasn't setting her up with a nice eligible bachelor. Her father was introducing her to the son of his lady friend!

Marcia caught Arlo's eye. He lifted his shoulders and had a hard time keeping his smile hidden. She looked to her father, who was whispering with Madeline Brooke, a grin that brought out the twinkle of happiness in his eye. Her father had been dating this Brooke woman for three months, and he'd never even told her! As soon as the rush of annoyance passed, Marcia cleared her throat to keep the laughter away. Sneaky old dad. Just like him. After a sip of water, she entered polite conversation with Charles Brooke. While in a discussion modern movies they both enjoyed, Marcia's phone trembled in her handbag. She excused herself, dived a hand into the bag, and brought out the unit. All the I.D. box said was 'Confidential'. Probably work.

She slid a little out of the booth as she brought the phone to her ear. The heat sensor kicked the phone on as soon as it touched her cheek. Then there was the tell-tale scramble of a satellite racing for security, in the process whisking away all doubt it was anyone else other than the NSA.

"Agent Lee," she said proudly and sternly.

"Ah, that's refreshing," said a woman on the end of the line. "You're the first member of your team today, Agent Lee, not to yell immediately upon answering my call. For that, I thank you."

"You're welcome, sir," she said. Relieved it was only Director Hattie, Marcia sidled between tables and made it to the side exit of the restaurant. The heat of Bridgeville hadn't tapered any in the last twenty minutes. It was stifling. She wanted to make the call quick and run back into the air conditioning. "What do you need, sir?"

"Where are you?"

"Home, sir. In the profound sense."

"Pardon?"

"Delaware, sir. I'm in Delaware."

"Ah, right," Hattie gathered. "The only NSA agent to ever come out of Delaware. Did you know that?"

"No, sir. Nothing good comes out of Delaware. Is something wrong, Agent Hattie?"

There was one of the director's typical long pauses on the line. Lee had begun to interpret these pauses as calms before storms. And, sure enough—

"I need you to come back as soon as you can. Now, as a matter of fact."

The knots in her stomach rose up again. Lee switched ears. A hot breeze from over the parking lot ruffled the hem of her skirt. "Normally I wouldn't ask for a reason, Agent Hattie. But I must ask for a reason now."

The reply came quickly, much quicker than Lee anticipated. "Agent Spencer has a lead on IU-6. I'm reassembling your team despite your day off, so you may have some success investigating this apparent lead."

"Okay," Lee said calmly. "Tell me where the lead is sending us and I'll fly straight there." This was said, even though it'd already registered that Agent Hattie had asked her to return to Colorado.

"You need to return to base, Agent Lee. Immediately."

"But, sir, if Ro and Zeta are somewhere else—"

"They're not somewhere else. They're here. They're in Colorado Springs."

Lee thought she'd gone deaf for a moment. But, no, she hadn't. And she didn't ask the director to repeat herself. "Tell Bennett and West not to make a move without me."

"I've taken the liberty. Jim is already here. West said he'll come in when you arrive."

Lee swallowed and dared herself to imagine what her father and brother would say if she ran out on them now. To hell with it. This was her job. This was her life.

The breeze caught her skirt again.

And it was work she did in black trousers.

"I'll be there in less than two hours. Lee out."

"Control out," chirped Hattie.

The line went dead. Lee sucked on her lips a second, hesitant to run in there and tell them she had to go: another emergency ATF bust that couldn't be done without her. Well, it was sort of like that, anyway. The lies never got prettier, and they never changed. There just seemed to be a lot more of them.

She just wished she hadn't told them it was her day off.