Wednesday December 13 2006
17:00 MST
Boulder
After parting ways with Frank, Nicole headed back towards her house in her daily driver, a white Lamborghini Gallardo. Normally, she followed Central's protocol about using an agency car and driver, but not when her monthly cycle amped up her mating call. She could have specified a female driver on those days, which probably would have been safe enough, but she preferred to use the excuse to drive her own vehicle, which saw little use during her infrequent returns to Boulder and her comfortable little home. At the wheel, she usually forewent the optional help of the Gallardo's oddball automated manual transmission, and handled the clutch and shifter herself. The Lambo was an all wheel drive model, and Nicole enjoyed piloting the nimble little coupe on the winding hilly roads around Central – even in winter, provided they were plowed.
Nevertheless, shortly after she turned off the highway onto her own road, she slowed and looked cautiously uphill at the scar marking the spot where a kiloton of sliding snow had nearly ended Cheryl's life. It could have been her, she thought. She had had no reason to get behind the wheel that night, but if she had, it could have been her. And if it had been, how many more hours would she have lay trapped in her vehicle in the freezing cold before someone came looking? Days, probably, and then only because Ivana had begun to worry what she was up to, and sent someone to her house. Life was just so uncertain, and security was an illusion.
She arrived at her home just as the winter sun slipped over the peaks to the west and the shadows crept down to cover the slope on which it perched. The lights over the garage door came on as she turned into the driveway, welcoming her, and the door rolled up at a touch of the opener's remote control. She parked inside and smiled as the door rolled back down behind her, making her feel safe.
An ornate grandfather clock in the foyer bonged the quarter hour as she entered: her Walter Durfee, removed from her vacated office at Darwin. She checked it against her cell phone – right on, as always, but it didn't hurt to be sure – and moved on to the living area.
She considered a swim, but decided to just sit at the bistro table and look out the windows while she checked her messages. Matt would be in Europe by now, doing some prep work for the Mannheim operation – specifically, dealing quietly with a handful of people who might be able to give warning to IO's primary targets. He would be in deep cover, probably, and on the move, but he might find time to send his little sister a short text. Also, she had left word with the hospital staff to notify her of any change in Cheryl's condition. And there were other people, friends and associates, who might drop a line to gossip or relay information they thought might interest her. Perhaps even Frank would send her something.
But when she opened her phone, she saw that the only item on her call log was a voicemail from Gerry Ruche. She made a face, weighing whether to play it or simply delete it, then huffed and played it back.
"Nicole, Gerry here. I'm wondering when you're going to bring me that phone, it's been three days now. I heard you've been busy at the clinic-"
She touched the button to erase the message. She had already scoured Gagnon's phone and erased any useful or damaging information during her first visit to Cheryl's bedside, but she felt no urgency about putting the now-useless instrument into Ruche's hands.
Still, there might be some fun to be had returning the toady's call. She dialed a number, but not Gerry's. The phone picked up after two rings, answered by a woman with a faint accent. "Hello?"
Nicole let the silence hang for a beat, then said, "Imelda?" Gerry Ruche was a waste of space, but his wife Imelda was a decent sort, and she and Nicole had spoken at social gatherings from time to time. "Imelda, it's Nicole, from work. Gerry left me a message asking me to call him, but he doesn't seem to be answering his phone. Is he home?" A safe bet; Gerry avoided long hours at work.
"Yes," Imelda said. "Just a moment. Deirdre, can you find Mister Ruche, and ask him to the phone?" A moment later, she said to Nicole, "I hope it's not anything important." Ruche's wife knew little about the Shop or her husband's place in it, and certainly nothing about the Genesis program, and knew better than to ask, so long as his paychecks continued to provide her family a luxury lifestyle. But, at public gatherings, she had seen the way men bent toward Nicole when she entered the room and tried to get close to her. The wariness Gerry showed her could easily be misconstrued as sexual tension – especially if Imelda suspected, as Nicole did, that Gerry was already boinking their housekeeper.
"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing." Nicole smiled into the phone. "Really, I shouldn't have bothered you. How's Catherine?" She asked, referring to the Ruches' two-year-old daughter.
"Very well," Imelda said. "She really seems to enjoy the daycare, and her teachers are very happy with her."
As if anyone working at the Shop-owned care center would dare utter an unkind word about the Security Director's child, even if she was a holy terror, Nicole thought. "That's great. She's such a cute kid. You should have a couple more."
"Well. one more, anyway. I've been thinking about it. But Gerry's just so busy, and we see so little of him. I'm not sure it would be fair to either of them. If only he didn't spend so much time at work."
"Time at work?" Nicole said, flattening her voice.
"Yes. He comes home so late half the time." At Nicole's silence she went on, "Is something wrong?"
"Well…" She let the pause stretch. "I see Gerry leave right on time, most days. Sometimes he even leaves early." Quickly she added, "I always thought his work was strictly office stuff, but they must be giving him assignments off-site."
"Yes," Imelda said distantly. "They must."
"I'd say that's a measure of confidence the higher-ups have in him, to let him work unsupervised so much. Wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes. Absolutely. I'm sorry, I don't know what's keeping him. I think – oh here he is."
"Hello?" Gerry's voice. Imelda had silently passed him the phone without saying goodbye, it seemed. Nicole heard the clicking noise of the woman's heels as she walked away.
She smiled into the phone. "Gerry? It's Nicole, returning your call."
"You called my wife?"
"I tried your number first, but it wouldn't go through, not even a ring. You must have been in a dead spot or something."
"How did you get my wife's number? Did someone at the office –"
"I got it from Imelda, Gerry," she said patiently. "And she has mine. We've known each other forever. We go to the same baby showers and birthday parties, after all."
He mulled that over for a moment, then said, "Anyway. About the phone."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I haven't been back in the office since Monday. Something came up."
"I heard," he said. "I really didn't think you two were that close."
"Frank and I are that close," she said. "And she's indispensible to him. She needs to be back on her feet and working, if she's to be any use to him. Or you." She gave him a moment to think about that, then went on, "Anyway. If I go into the complex tomorrow, I'll have it on your desk first thing. Honestly, I'm not sure what you're going to get out of it. I looked through it, and I didn't find anything but defunct contact information. Then again, I'm no expert. Maybe your people or Frank's will find something I missed."
"That's fine," he said, and Nicole was suddenly sure that his primary interest in the phone was simply to get it out of her hands before she found something useful on it. "Anything else?"
"One thing… do you have a timetable for the Mannheim operation yet? I'd like to know when it's scheduled to wrap up."
"Why?"
She sighed softly into the phone. "Because my brother is over there, Gerry, and I'd like to know when he's coming back." Which was true, but she also wanted very much to have some advance notice of the arrival of the Odd Squad veterans, especially John Lynch's old Team Seven buddies.
A pause, no doubt while Ruche speculated on what other means Nicole might employ to get the information if he refused. "I'd say a week to ten days. We'll have a better idea once your brother reports in."
"Thank you, Gerry," she said. "I'll be in touch."
She quickly cleaned up her inbox, and tried to decide what to do with the rest of her evening. Television was her usual last choice for entertainment, but she could read a book, she supposed; she had just bought the newest Stephanie Meyer, a sequel to Twilight, that she supposed would be good for a chuckle or two. Maybe put on some music as well; her collection wasn't as extensive as Frank's, but there was plenty to choose from. Food delivery was impossible to get this far out, but she supposed she could throw a boxed meal from the freezer into the oven or microwave, and enjoy a quiet evening at home, even if there was no falling snow to watch…
Oh, who am I kidding? She entered Frank's number.
"Hi," he said, voice guarded, plainly having recognized her phone number before picking up.
"Hi," she said. "Are you back home yet?"
"Just got through the door." A hesitation. "Listen. Whatever reasons you had for it, you did a good thing for her. And for me. I'm grateful."
"You're welcome. Did you eat yet?"
"What?"
"Dinner. I'm thinking I could bring some things over, and we can cook dinner together in your kitchen." At his silence she went on, "My power rollercoasters this time of the month. The top of the hill passed early this morning, and it's been plunging all day. Right now, my call is in the trough, as weak as it ever gets. With a little effort, I could stifle it completely." She paused. "If you really need to know if… whatever you feel for me is real, this is the day."
Another pause. "What have you got in mind?"
She smiled into the phone. "For dinner?"
"Yeah. For dinner."
"Well, I like to start dinner with a salad."
"I've got all that. You don't need to bring anything."
"Annnd… I'm feeling a taste for Italian. Pasta, I want carbs. And chicken, maybe."
"Parmesan? Or piccata?"
"Parmesan sounds good," she said. "Or if that's too much bother, we could just do spaghetti."
Bumping noises on the other end of the line. "I have the pasta, and canned sauce. You like meat in your spaghetti? I've got ground beef."
"Are we still doing chicken?"
"I don't have any chicken in the fridge, sorry."
"I do," she said. "Two breasts, frozen, already seasoned. You have flour, or bread crumbs?"
"You bread your Parmesan chicken?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
"I have eggs," he said, "and, let's see, some Gold Medal, I guess we're good."
"Good," she said. "Put burger in the sauce anyway."
"Really?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm feeling carnivorous, all of a sudden. Maybe a double dose of protein will keep me from wanting to eat you alive."
Silence.
She said, "I said a wrong thing, didn't I?"
"If another woman had said it, I would have smiled. How soon are you getting here?"
"I'm still dressed." She left the pool room, headed for the kitchen. "And I'm not bringing much. I'll be in the car in less than ten minutes. I'll be at your place in twenty, if I don't get buried in an avalanche on the way."
"Was that supposed to be funny?"
"I don't know. Probably. But if I'm not there in half an hour, call me, okay?"
The phone rang as she was turning into the cut in the dark snow-walled road that marked the entrance to Frank's house. "I'm here," she said when she connected. "Just let me park and gather up my stuff and I'll be in."
Her headlights swung across the drive, the dazzling brightness of the walls of plowed snow making the sky above them black by contrast. Colby's drive was plowed as well, but an inch or two of windblown snow coated its surface; a dozen sets of tire tracks marked it. Well, the Director of Operations did have to travel back and forth to Central most days, and he did have three shifts of guards. She found herself studying the impressions as she drove, trying to tell how many different vehicles they might represent.
The drive curved gently, its end unseen. Before she reached the house, she saw a black Suburban parked in an area cleared of snow beside the driveway on the left, facing her way. Vapor drifted from its exhaust. She stopped alongside and rolled down her window. The driver's window of the company vehicle did the same.
She said, "Hey, Gordon."
"Hey, Nicole."
"Aren't you off shift?"
"Not till the next team arrives. They're a few minutes late. Caught behind a snow plow or something, I suppose. The road crew has been making extra passes."
She nodded. "Everybody's being a little more cautious on these roads, just lately."
He eyed the Gallardo; she supposed that, from the Suburban's seat, he could see right over the little coupe's roof. "That's no car for driving in snow, Nicole."
"It's all wheel drive," she said. "I've got good tires. And I stick to the plowed roads."
"I'll bet you can't get your fist between the pavement and the undercarriage right where you're sitting. You plow into a drift big enough, you'll lift all four wheels right off the road."
She smiled. "Are you worried about me, Gord?"
"It's kind of my job," he said. "Just because you scare me sometimes doesn't change that." His manner changed, his look and voice making her think of a soldier scanning an enemy position. "We'll be back tomorrow morning, late. You going to still be here?"
"I don't know," she said. "It would be nice. But I may just be staying for dinner."
"Be careful, Nicole."
She smiled at him. "You really are worried. That's sweet. It's okay, Gordon. You know Frank. He'll treat me right." She rolled up her window and drove on.
From the driveway, not much of Frank Colby's house was visible. The upper level presented only two wide garage doors, an entry to the house below, and a third, smaller rollup door, six or seven feet wide, whose purpose she didn't know. Perhaps it was for deliveries, she thought, or access to the house's mechanicals. Or maybe it was where Frank kept his lawnmower. One of the wide doors was open to an empty double bay, lit up and welcoming, its light spilling warmly into the driveway. She smiled and rolled her little sports car into the cavernous space. By the time she shut off the engine and exited the car with her bags, the door was beginning to roll down behind her.
She entered the connecting door to the passage leading to the house proper, a wide, tall stairwell containing a pair of long, broad stairways that zigzagged across the face of the hill with a landing between, about twenty steps apiece. Windows along the top of the far wall provided daylight and a view of the eastern sky, though at this time of day they were black, and the space illuminated only by wall fixtures.
Both sections of the stairway were equipped with wheelchair escalators. When she had descended these stairs for the first time – was it really just two weeks ago? She had looked at the lifts and wondered if Frank Colby was still capable of performing for a woman, his therapist's glowing reports notwithstanding.
She smiled, remembering how surprised she had been when he had risen from his wheelchair with her in his arms and carried her down the hall to his bedroom. Granted, her mating call did sometimes provide her partner a physical rush similar to adrenaline, but she strongly suspected that Frank had also been holding back during his therapy. It seemed to her that, even without the boost of her power, he might manage these stairs on foot if he really wanted to.
At the bottom of the stairwell, she went through a door and stepped into the foyer, no different from one that might be found opening onto a grassy lawn. "Frank? Where are you?"
"Kitchen," he called back. "Any trouble?"
"Not on the road," she said, dropping a small barrel bag on the foyer floor and hanging her coat in the closet. "It just took me a little longer to get out of the house than I thought."
Bringing her groceries into the kitchen, she saw Frank in his wheelchair at the island range, stirring a saucepan with a wooden spoon. A pot half full of water steamed on an adjacent burner. "Burger in the sauce, as ordered," he said. She saw then that the pan was filled with marinara, its texture roughened by ground beef. Tins of seasoning stood on the counter nearby.
She sniffed at the fragrant air. "I thought you said the red stuff came out of a jar."
"Well, I thought it might benefit from something besides ground chuck." He lifted the spoon toward her. "Taste."
She touched her lips to the contents of the spoon and licked them, savoring. "Mmm. You're good at a lot of things, aren't you?"
"I learned to cook in self-defense," he said. "I make my own meals, I know what's in them."
"Hmp."
He looked her over, assessing her clothing: loose cotton pants, long-sleeved button-front shirt, with a sweater vest that ended at her bottom ribs. "That's a different look for you."
"Casual, comfortable, and non-provocative. You like?"
"It does look good on you. But I'm having trouble imagining you in anything that doesn't."
The larger pot was just beginning to form bubbles at the bottom. Its rim, she noted, was even with the top of her host's head. "Good thing I wasn't any later. Can you see when it starts boiling?"
"I can hear it. Spaghetti's on the counter behind you. Hand it over, then you'd better get that chicken in the mike to thaw." Leaving his spoon in the pan, he turned in the chair and reached into a base cabinet and with a rattle, produced two pie pans. "Flour is in the cabinet next to the fridge. You know where to find the eggs. Dip the bird in egg, roll it in flour, then dip it again."
"So organized," she said, touching her lips to the top of his head. "So sure. It's kind of sexy." She unwrapped the bird and arranged it on a plate. "How long, do you think?"
"Try five minutes on half power, and we'll see. It really depends on how cold the freezer chilled it."
She stuck the plate in the over-stove unit, gently bumping his shoulder as she leaned sideways past him, and began pushing buttons. "My freezer's a Subzero."
"That's just a brand name, Nicole, it doesn't mean it gets your food that cold."
She set the machine running. Over its hum she said, "I'm not an imbecile, Frank."
He felt his forearms prickle. "Sorry."
"I'm not upset. I just don't want you to start lumping me in with your other girlfriends."
"No chance of that."
"Glad to hear it. Anything I can do over here?"
"Not really," he said. "We're waiting on the chicken, I got ahead of myself. Now the water's boiling, I'll turn it down and wait a bit – pasta only takes ten or twelve minutes to cook. You like it al dente?"
"Anything you want is fine with me."
He turned the knob of the burner under the pot. "Was that a double entendre?"
She placed her hands on the back of his wheelchair, fingertips just brushing his shoulders. "Was my answer ambiguous? I'm sorry. Cook your pasta however you like."
"Sorry," he said. "I guess I'm feeling a little keyed up."
"I'd offer to massage your neck and shoulders, but I'm not sure it would make things better." She leaned over the chair. Softly she said, "This date can end after dinner, if you want. Just don't decide yet." She turned away. "How about some music?"
"Sure." He stirred the sauce, listening to her moving in the living room, trying to judge whether the increasing separation was changing his attitude about her. He still found her perilously attractive, but how could it be otherwise? Is her power really off? Would it really be safe…
Are you really thinking about it? Getting close to her is life-threatening in more ways than simply risking her sucking the life out of you. Having Cher around complicates your movements enough, but letting this girl share any more of your life than she already does is really putting your head in the noose.
Do I really have a choice? Or is she just playing with me?
Music abruptly filled the house: a heavy bass intro playing a simple series of chords, over and over.
Everybody
Yeahhh
Everybody
Yeahhh
"You brought your own music," he called through the open doorway. "Backstreet Boys, seriously?"
"I'm surprised you recognize them," she called back. "I don't think any of them were born yet when bell bottoms went out of fashion. Is it time to do something with the chicken?"
"I've got it." He lowered the burner under the sauce and pushed his wheelchair back, standing just as the microwave dinged. The filets were warm and soft on the surface, but still hard and cold inside. Just like the girl who brought them, came the thought before he tamped it down. He reset the unit, going for a longer time at lower power, and set it running. He dropped back into his wheelchair and rolled out of the kitchen.
He found Nicole, once again, going through his shelves of CDs. "What are you doing there?"
She returned a jewel-cased selection to its shelf. "Just trying to learn something about you without quizzing you. I know you hate that."
"A man who nearly lost his life, on suspicion that he was a double agent, answering a string of questions from IO's chief interrogator. Who could possibly be nervous about that?"
"I know. They don't deserve your trust. And you can't help thinking of me as one of them. I am, really." She approached and stood before him, a yard away. "But I'm not here for them. I'm here for you."
Colby backed his chair away and rolled it under the dining table. "Have you talked with Cheryl?"
She smiled at the change of subject. "Since lunchtime today? She's probably been sleeping. They've got her on some good meds. I'm told she'll be out a lot for the next few days while she heals up." She drew back a chair across from him and sat, leaving a yard of mahogany between them, even with her forearms on the table. "They're discussing skin grafts, just as a possibility if it doesn't look like she'll heal on her own. Don't know where they'd take the skin from, but they'll have choices - the cosmetic damage is pretty much just on her hands and face." She shook her head. "Outside this time of year without gloves or a hat. What was she thinking? We're going to have to take better care of her when she comes back, Frank."
He said carefully, "Your interest seems to go beyond getting her back to work."
"I told you, I'm trying to be her friend. And she seems receptive to the idea, at least." She locked eyes, making him swallow. "You remember when we talked about a threesome…"
"You were doing all the talking."
"Maybe so. But I was thinking of her at the time. I find her devotion to you very appealing. I think, maybe, from her, I could learn how to love a man." She looked down at the table. "I never have, really. I don't remember my father. I'm not sure what to call my relationship with Matt. I suppose it's love. But I've got nothing to compare it to. What I feel toward the men I tryst with, I can't even call friendship. I feel affection for a handful of other men, men I don't intend ever to sleep with..." Her eyes rose to meet his again. "But what I feel for you, what I want to feel for you, is different from all that."
From the kitchen, the microwave dinged. Colby quickly pushed back from the table. "I've got it."
"So have I. if it's thawed, we need to get dinner moving."
"In a hurry?"
The corner of her mouth lifted. "Not exactly."
Lynwood California
18:00 PST
"What's the big deal about palm trees?" Standing just outside the door to their motel room, Leon looked over the building's roof at a row of the trees in question, their uplighted foliage bright against the twilight sky. "They look like worn-out feather dusters to me."
"They're supposed to be exotic," Rachel pulled hard on the door to close it, then gave it a little shake and a twist of the knob to test it. "Make you think of adventure in faraway places." She pulled her hair, now dyed black, into a ponytail and secured it with a clip. "They're not actually native to California, if I recall correctly. They die off pretty easily if they're not carefully tended."
"Adventure," he said sourly as she joined him at the back bumper of their rented car. She looked good with black hair and brown eyes, he decided. The tanning cream wasn't really working for her, though: she had applied it evenly enough, but the color just seemed off somehow, on someone with her high cheekbones and narrow features. "Past couple years, I've learned something about adventure."
"What's that?"
"A little of it goes a long way."
The parking area was a courtyard nearly closed off by the motel's four sides, with access to the lot through a single arched opening, barely a car wide, piercing one of the walls. Forsaking their vehicle, they turned toward the breach, beyond which Leon could see the narrow sidewalk that separated the building's front from the curb, and a six-lane street, busy with traffic.
Directly across the street he could see a small home electronics store, the address given them by their arranger in Detroit. They had found the shop two days before; their new IDs, if the man was true to his word, would be ready this morning. Leon's lip twitched as he watched Rachel take a right and head down the sidewalk to the intersection and its signaled crosswalk, a hundred feet away. "Since when are you a Safety Girl?"
"Oy," she said. "You think there's one meshugganah in this whole town knows how to drive? You step off the curb, you'll be lucky if you only get run over twice." In her normal voice she said, "Seriously, Leon, this is a bad time to dodge traffic on a six-lane road. What if somebody hit me?"
They reached the corner crosswalk. The button that pedestrians were supposed to push to change the light was gone, just a round hole in the box. "A car isn't going to hurt you. Rache, even if it's doing forty."
"No, but somebody wrapping the front of his car around a pedestrian who runs off afterward would generate some unwanted interest, don't you think?"
The light changed, allowing them to cross. Two young men on the opposite side started across, their eyes on Rachel from the moment she stepped into the crosswalk. They passed near the middle of the road; one of them pursed his lips in a kissing gesture, oblivious to Leon's scowl. Leon said, "You get plenty of unwanted attention already."
"Not the sort that attracts newsmen and cops. It's hardly the length of a football field, Mister Quarterback. You can't really be grousing about the extra walk." They gained the sidewalk and turned toward the shop.
"Tight end, not quarterback," he corrected. "I'm not upset about the walk. I just think we need to minimize our exposure here."
"Should I ask which of us you think doesn't fit in?"
"Nine tenths of the people in this town are Hispanic. Almost all the rest are black. You're the only white girl on the street. And yeah, you still don't really fit in, even with dyed hair and contacts. Everybody we pass by gives you a second look." Especially the men.
"Well, we were never planning to stay here," she said, as they approached the display windows of the shop. "Thought about someplace to settle down?"
"Small town, I'm thinking, but not too small. Someplace out of the way, but not far from good roads. Maybe up in the mountains a little."
"You might want to look at a map, Leon. You're going to have a hard time finding an isolated little community with more than one road in or out."
"Further south then, somewhere between LA and San Diego. Some bedroom community without much industry, a place where folks mind their own business."
"I like the mountain idea, though. I'd like to stay clear of the smog. Some of the fringe communities go right up to the foothills."
"And someplace where there are more white faces, so you don't have to go so heavy on the disguise."
She lifted her tail and dropped it. "What, you don't think this works for me?"
"You look good," he said. "But it's not you."
Boulder
"Chicken Parm without any Parmesan," Colby said, cocking an eye at his dinner companion.
"You suggested it," she protested, rolling the egg-coated chicken in a plate filled with flour. "I thought you had the cheese."
"When I suggested it, I didn't even know I didn't have any chicken. Turned out, all I had was sauce and pasta, I told you that. You said you were bringing things."
"Well, I didn't think I'd have to bring everything. I thought Cher would have stocked you up better than this."
"She doesn't do my shopping," he said, feeling oddly defensive.
"Well, somebody should. What do you live on, coffee and crackers? I think…" A little smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Does this count as our first fight?"
"Only if it ends with broken furnishings." He realized he was smiling back.
"What kind of cheese do you have?"
"White cheese? Got some Swiss."
"Italian chicken with an international flavor," she said, depositing the breaded filets on a baking pan. "A blending of two disparate cultures."
"It's sliced," he said. "Processed, I think."
"With a little truck stop cuisine thrown in." She set the timer. "Twenty enough, do you think?"
"Soon enough to look in on it, anyway. What do you want to do till then?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized what he had said, and felt his chest tightening.
"I left my card deck at home," she said. "How about we just hang out in the living room and enjoy the music?"
"I'm not sure 'enjoy' is a word I can apply to the music you brought," he said.
Her lashes lowered. "Well, let's see if we can do something about that."
Lynwood California
"Well, what about this place?" Rachel asked.
Leon resolutely passed the door of the Mexican diner, continuing down the sidewalk. "If I'm gonna be on a bus for ten hours tomorrow, I'm not having dinner at a place called 'El Infierno.'"
She scoffed. "Well, I suppose we could head for the nearest Cracker Barrel."
He made a show of looking up and down the street, busy even an hour after sunset, the sidewalks peppered with people. Almost like Detroit, he thought, but with the black-to-brown ratio reversed. "The nearest Cracker Barrel is probably back in Tucson."
She gave him a little sigh of resignation. "Well, there's always the pizza place just up the road. Again."
"Or the fried rice place next door."
"Oh, joy." A few steps later she said, "I miss cooking at home."
"Home?"
"The apartment, you know what I mean."
"Did you even know what a stove looked like before you came to Darwin?"
"Jesus, Leon, the ideas you've got about people with a little money. Yes, we had a cook. And a housekeeper. And a crew to tend the lawn and landscaping once a week. That doesn't mean I dropped my socks all over the house for someone else to pick up, or woke Charlotte up at one a.m. to fix me a snack. I could reheat food and boil water like normal people. I even loaded the dishwasher. And I got my own clothes to the hamper." She cocked an eye at her companion. "What about you, Leon? How much did you do around the house, with your ahnt and grandmamma to fuss over you?"
He grinned. "Aunt Cecily would have slapped my wrist if she ever caught me loading the washing machine. But she expected me to pick up after myself."
"At Brandeis, I ate out most of the time, with friends. The sorority house had a daily tidy-up service, about the same as a hotel. I didn't make my own bed or clean the bathroom mirror, but I never left stuff lying around either. And I did my own laundry."
"Sorority." He shook his head, smiling. "Of course you were in a sorority. Your mom's old pledge, I spose."
"She never went there. Brandeis had plenty of media arts and creative writing degrees, but no journalism program. She worked freelance for National Geographic, took trips maybe twice a year."
"Sounds like you were pretty well settled in. why'd you take Darwin's offer? Couldn't have been for the money."
"Actually, it was." She paused to study a streetlight flickering over their heads. "You know I was adopted."
"I'm pretty sure almost all of us were."
"Yeah, that wasn't suspicious at all, was it? My folks have got money, four years at Brandeis wouldn't have broken them. And I know they wouldn't have grudged it just because I wasn't born to them. But thanks to the stipend and the free ride, getting my degree at Darwin would have meant finishing my four years with a pile of cash, six figures for sure, instead of a balance owed. And it would have been my money, my parents made that clear. I signed the application papers already planning how I'd put it to work."
"I've seen what you can do," he said, feeling oddly distanced from her as he sometimes did. "You'd have been a millionaire before you were twenty."
"You might have too, if you'd gone to 'Bama. You had a free ride waiting for you there. Why jump ship and go to a school that didn't even have a football team?"
"That was a plus, not a minus. Don't get me wrong, I really like football, whether it's at school or just a scratch game in a vacant lot. But going from a high school team to college ball is a whole 'nother game. Colleges are all farm teams for pro ball, it's where a lot of their money comes from. You come to a team on scholarship, you'd better at least act like you've got an eye on pro ball if you want the coaches to spend time on you.
But I was never there for that. I know the odds. Even good players don't get scouted for NFL slots if they don't hustle and promote themselves. And even fighting your way to a franchise team's bench is no guarantee of a big paycheck – pro teams have budgets like any other business, including caps on payroll. And, in a typical NFL team, five guys get half the cash, and the other fifty players split the rest. And you got to worry all the time about a bad tackle ending your career, especially if you staked everything on making it in football and didn't make full use of that free education. I liked my odds at Darwin better." He huffed. "Talk about odds. If they let you on a team, they'd get a touchdown every time somebody passed you the ball."
"You'd have to teach me the rules," she said, smiling. "And, while I'm sure my pro career would be pretty spectacular, it would probably be brief, and end rather abruptly, don't you think?"
"What do you think, Rache? This freaky shit we do. Was it in us all along, and they knew somehow? Or did they do something to us when we were there?"
"They didn't pick us at random, Leon. I don't know what our connection is, but there are people who do. And I bet The Man in Black is one of them."
"Think we'll ever see him again? Or any of the others?"
"Doesn't seem likely, unless we get caught. We're scattered all over the country, maybe all over the world by now. What are the odds we'd ever cross paths by accident?"
What are the odds of the two of us getting in that car together, and sharing our lives ever since?
"What?"
"I didn't say anything." They were in front of a gas station with a broad canopy covering the pumps and a little convenience store; he turned and crossed the asphalt, passing under the canopy. "I'll be right back."
"Leon, you're not going to get food from here, are you?"
"No. That taco restaurant down the street will be okay, I guess. I just want to grab something."
When he came out a few minutes later, Rachel had her shoulders against one of the I-beam columns supporting the canopy, smiling faintly at some hopeful lobo leaning over her with a palm pressed to the steel just above her shoulder. She looked Leon's way, and her smile widened. The boy turned his head, saw the big black man bearing down on them, and stepped back. "Hey, it's cool, man," he said. "She didn't say she was with somebody." He gave her an accusing look.
"I didn't think you'd believe me," she said to him, still smiling. She grasped Leon's hand. "You must hear that excuse all the time."
Leon led her away, continuing down the street. After half a block, he let go of her hand like it was hot. "Should have taken you in with me."
"He was harmless. What did you pick up?"
"A road map. Thought we might look it over while we wait for our orders."
"Hn." As they approached the restaurant, she said, "You know, we're not going to spend ten hours on the bus, unless we turn north and double back. We can't be more than a couple hundred miles from the Mexican border right now." she paused at the door of the eatery. "You're not thinking of crossing, are you?"
"No," he said. "A border crossing sounds risky to me. And I don't see any benefit in fleeing to Mexico anyway. I doubt it would put us out of these people's reach."
"I don't think running to Vladivostok would take us out of their reach." She pulled the door open, releasing warm air mixed with the scents of bread and spices. "We just have to find a quiet place where we can stay hidden."
Boulder
"That's not bad," Colby said. Sitting on the living room couch, he watched Nicole turn from the record player and give him a smile as a mellow guitar ballad filled the room.
"I took a bit of a chance at the record store," she said. "I never heard of George Benson, but he's from your era, and the music is pretty chill, if you're in the right mood." She joined him on the couch, not quite touching hips.
He lifted his arm and rested it on the back of the couch behind her. "So, what's the right mood for this music?"
"Dance fever." She grinned up at him. "Some of the numbers on this album are real toe-tappers, seriously." Her smile changed. "But this one… definitely a slow dance tune, the kind where the couples kiss during the bridge."
The memory of her in his arms tightened his chest and buttocks. "I don't dance."
"But you most definitely kiss." She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. "I never flirted before. How am I doing?"
An insistent beeping noise came from the kitchen. Nicole stood abruptly. "I'll check it."
Alone in the living room, Colby let out a breath and tried to gauge his feelings for the absent temptress. Were they lessened by the ten yards separating them? He didn't know. Was her claim that her power ebbed once a month true, or misdirection? Certainly, the pleasure of her company that he presently felt was nothing compared to the irresistible pull that had overwhelmed his senses and nearly stolen his life on her last visit to his home. But he was quickly getting comfortable with this girl in a way that seemed wrong on a number of levels. How complete was her control over her power? Did it ever really slip beyond her control?
How much trust could he afford to place in her? Could he believe anything she said? None, he decided, and no. But his conviction was considerably weaker when she was close. That, he concluded, was probably the true test of whether she was still exercising power over him.
He suddenly experienced the same wary tension that he had on her first visit, before Gen-induced lust had carried him away. He felt an irrational urge to reach over to his chair to touch the gun under the seat.
"Chicken's done," she called from the kitchen. "I'm turning up the water. Stay there, I'll put in the noodles.""
"Wait till it's boiling," he called back. "Set the timer."
"Will do. Ten minutes, you said?"
"Ten or twelve, if you put in the pasta as soon as you see bubbles."
The record ended, and the tone arm lifted and swung away, dropping into its rest. He thought about standing up and turning the platter over. Instead, he listened to Nicole dropping pasta into the pot and rattling pans on the counter. It all sounded so domestic and ordinary. Had any of the women he had shared a roof with known anything about cooking? If they had, they hadn't wasted their skills on him.
Nicole came out of the kitchen and glanced at the still and silent player. "They don't last long, do they? Just flip it and start again?"
"Right."
A moment later, the needle was dropping onto the edge of the platter. At the first song's backbeat-heavy intro, Nicole smiled and started rocking her hips.
Colby swallowed. "You really like dancing, don't you?" He said, just for something to say.
"Not really. Not alone, anyway," she amended, raising her arms as she turned and twisted to the music. "I've got girlfriends at Central, female staffers I hang out with and talk to. We go out to dinner and shows and such. It's fun. But they don't like taking me along on a Girl's Night Out if we're going someplace with a dance floor. When they're with me anywhere resembling a pickup spot, they think they're seeing men at their worst. Before the night is over, if I'm not gone with someone, I'm dancing all alone on the floor. Kind of irksome, really. But it's different here. There's just something about being with you that makes me want to dance."
So come on out tonight
And we'll lead the others
On a ride to Paradise
And if it feels alright
Then we can be lovers
Cause I see that starlight look in your eyes
She asked, "What's the name of this song?"
He looked away. "Give Me the Night."
"Well, of course it is. He's only said it twenty times. A club tune, for sure." She smiled down at him. "You can look all you want, you know."
"I'm thinking that could be bad for my health."
She smiled again. "Like eating too much candy?"
"More like eating too much amphetamine."
"Hm."
Nicole stopped and stood waiting as the song ended. A moment later, it was replaced by a rather different song, The intro was a liquid keyboard melody, quickly joined by a series of notes picked out on guitar. The guitar work quickly grew more elaborate. Soon it was clear that there were no lyrics; the track was fully instrumental. Nicole said, "He's the guitarist?"
"Yeah."
"A man of many talents." She approached the couch until she was standing between his feet. "Like you." She extended a hand, palm up, almost touching his chest.
He swallowed. "I don't dance."
"I'm not asking you to tango, Frank. Two weeks ago, you picked me up and carried me through your house. I'm sure you can handle a few minutes of step-and-turn."
He stood without taking her hand. She looked up at him. "Jesus, you're tall." She laced her fingers behind his neck. "Okay? No sudden overwhelming desire to tear my clothes off?"
He placed his hands at the small of her back, just above her butt. He had intended his touch to be light, but his hands had a mind of their own, pulling them together and pressing her to him. "Not an overwhelming one, no. But I'm thinking about it."
"As well you should." Her fingers unlaced, and her forearms crossed behind his neck with her hands on his traps. She tugged gently, swaying her hips, making him move along with her. "Not because I'm a Special. Because you're a healthy heterosexual man, and the girl in your arms is pretty and willing."
"That's all it takes?"
"That's all it takes to think about it. Men are very sexual creatures."
"Men treat you differently from other women, Nicole."
"Oh, sure," she said. "But I've seen how they treat other girls." She looked at his shoulder. "Sometimes it makes me a little envious." A minute later she said, "For a man who spends most of his day in a wheelchair, you're pretty light on your feet."
"I'm good for short stretches," he said, "but it doesn't last. I'll have to sit down soon."
"Do you want to sit down now?"
"I can last till the song is over." With a gentle tug, he signaled a turn, and they twisted ninety degrees to the right.
"You said you didn't dance," she said.
"I used to," he replied. "A little might be coming back to me."
She said into his chest, "Was she the last girl you danced with?"
His shoulder blades tightened, and the room seemed to cool. "She?"
"You know. At the supper club in Boulder. The wait staff said you danced with her."
He stopped moving and dropped his arms. Is that what this is all about? Just trying to put me at ease and distract me, so I'll let something slip?
She looked up at him. "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I'm just trying to know you better, to learn what you like. Isn't that what girlfriends do?"
From the kitchen came a rhythmic beep, the timer going off. He ignored it. "You're steering me. Your power's not gone."
"I never said it was. I said it's as weak as it ever gets by itself, and I thought I could shut it down completely if I tried." She moved toward the kitchen. "Why do you think I'm so eager to get a meal in?"
Lynwood
"Not the coast road," Leon said, scowling at the big map nearly covering the little booth's table. "I'm sure it's scenic, but we're looking for a place to stay, and we won't find what we're looking for anywhere near a beach."
"We'll head east, then." Rachel sat beside him, her hip pressing against his. She reached over the table, leaning forward, and he lifted his arm to make way for her, dropping his hand to the cushion behind her. Her finger traced a path east and southeast along the spiderweb of highways between Los Angeles and the mountains to the east. "How far before we turn south, do you think? I'm guessing you don't want to visit Disneyland," she said with a smile in her voice.
Her hip and shoulder blade pressed against him, warming him with her body heat. He could smell her shampoo, not motel issue, the stuff she used all the time, subtly floral without any chemical undertones. The small of her back brushed against the forearm of the hand resting flat on the seat. A twist of his wrist would put her hip in his palm…
"Leon?"
"Thinking." He concentrated on the map. "Corona, between the ranges. No point going past to Riverside, it's almost as big as Detroit."
"Looks like we're keeping the car," she said. "Public transport may not take us where we want to go."
"Yeah, if we're scouting a location, we'll need the mobility. Might be a good idea to change cars before we set out."
"Go one better. Buy a car. That way we're not sticking a pin in somebody's map every time we turn one in. We can afford a used one." She studied the map. "And if we end up settling into any of these towns, we'll need our own wheels anyway." She shifted, settling back into the seat, and he hastily lifted his hand and put his arm across the seat back behind her. "How far south are you thinking?"
In the window between wait station and kitchen, Leon saw a pair of plates appear on the shelf between the takeout boxes: their order, since they were presently the only people dining in. It was about time to fold up the map, he thought, and stop talking about destinations before the waitress showed up. "About halfway between LA and San Diego, as far from heavy traffic as we can get. I bet the Interstates pack up at least twice a day near the big cities, and I wouldn't want to have to get on a road I might not be able to get off of in a hurry." His finger traced the line of I-15 as it bent south. "Maybe one of these towns where the highway comes down out of the mountains. Murrieta, Temecula, Rainbow, Pala Mesa, Escondido."
Boulder
"Not bad," Colby said, delivering another forkful of breaded chicken to his mouth. "The Swiss is just fine with it."
"Well, Italy and Switzerland do share a border." Nicole pushed herself back from the table. "I'm done."
He eyed the half-full plate. "You didn't like it?"
"I liked it fine. But I don't want to overeat. I just want to bring my blood sugar up." She stood and reached for her plate. "I'll clean up while you finish."
Once the dishwasher was loaded and the leftovers delivered to the refrigerator, the two of them retired to the living room. Colby took a seat on the couch with one hip against its arm while Nicole dropped a fresh platter on the record player. Slow, smoky jazz came out of the speakers as she came to sit with him, brushing hips and shoulders.
"Big couch," she said. "Do you ever lie down on it?"
"Not me." He lifted his arm to rest on the couch's back. "Cheryl's spent a night or two on it, falling asleep while she's working."
She snuggled under his arm, resting her head against the front of his shoulder. "So dedicated. And you put her feet up and tucked her in, because she didn't know you could carry her to the spare bedroom."
"Neither did I." his arm dropped of its own accord, and his hand found her hip. She seems so short when she's sitting. Is that much of her height really in her legs? "Didn't know you liked blues."
"I didn't either." She dropped a hand on his knee. "I bought it because it seemed like something you'd like. Do you?"
"Very much." The slow, sensual rhythm soaked into him, relaxing his back and shoulders.
She turned her head to look up at him. "Just an evening with the girlfriend?"
"For now." His hand moved from hip to belly; his thumb stroked her navel. "How long can you keep this up?"
"Tonight?" her hand gently grasped his forearm, pressing his hand into her belly. "I'd like to say all night, but I've never actually tried before. Throes of passion, and all that. I can guarantee you won't come to harm, though. I'm sure I'll retain that much control."
He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He stood, and her hands dropped off him. He extended a hand, which she took, and pulled her up. Her smile disappeared when he began to tow her toward the front door.
She said, "I know I told you to wait till after dinner, but I wasn't really expecting things to go this way."
He got her coat out of the closet and held it for her. "If you stay, I'll never really know if it was my choice, Nicole."
"Okay," she said. "I get that." She slipped her arms into the coat, her back to him. "Is it okay to call you when I get home?"
"Please do." He opened the door leading to the stairwell, bringing a cool draft into the room.
She paused at the door. "I didn't get a goodbye kiss last time, either."
"Sorry," he said. "It isn't that I don't want to. I just don't know how far I can go with you right now, before I've gone too far."
She nodded and passed through the door. He watched her ascend the first flight of stairs. She paused on the landing, looking down at him, seeming about to say something. He said, "Drive careful," and shut the door.
Colby rested a hand on the door, feeling drained. The music from the record player now sounded lonely and sad. The wheelchair by the dining table beckoned, but he continued to stand at the door. She must be at the top of the stairs by now, he thought. Maybe even at her car. Before she cleared the parking area, she would be at least thirty yards away, the separation she had mandated as a safe distance for males when she visited Cher in the hospital. But she had said that he was 'sensitized' – did that extend her range of influence as well as the intensity?
What did he feel about this girl, really? God's sake, why did he feel anything at all?
He turned away, and saw the bag lying on the floor. Nicole had packed for an overnight stay, it seemed. His first thought was to leave the bag there and return it to her tomorrow at Central, either from his own hand or by one of the security detail.
He picked it up. It was surprisingly light, though it felt full. Suspicion niggled. What had she brought to his house, and left here? Ignoring his wheelchair, he brought the bag to the kitchen table. Cautiously, he opened the zipper and began removing items.
On top was a neatly folded IO uniform. Next, an assortment of airline-size toiletries, along with hair- and toothbrushes and a small collection of makeup items. A tiny bottle of perfume. A couple pairs of cotton socks. There were no pajamas, only a gray T-shirt and matching cotton pants. He had reached the bottom of the bag, but it wasn't empty: interior pockets lined the sides and ends, and they were full.
The pockets on the near side contained underthings: bra-and-panty sets, plain, modest and functional. Pushing aside his unease at pawing through a woman's lingerie, Colby replaced them and searched the pockets opposite.
The opposite pockets contained items meant to be worn against the skin as well, but they were the opposite of modest, meant for display rather than coverage. His breath roughened as he held them in his hands, imagining her in them, and he hastily restored them to their pockets.
Only the inner pockets on the ends remained unexamined. The shape of a small box printed against the fabric of one of them. Half certain of what the box contained, he pushed his hand into the pocket at the opposite end, gathered a handful of fabric, and pulled it out.
He spread the cream-colored ensemble out on the table: a silken camisole, cropped, and a matching panty that was no more than a triangle of fabric the size of his palm, connected to strings thinner than shoelaces. Secured by knots at hips and between the breasts, it looked like it could be removed in about three seconds. It looked, he thought, like something a bride might wear on her wedding night.
He crumpled the nightwear in his fist and stuffed it back in its pocket. She could make me ready with a glance if she wants. Why would she bother with all this?
The box in the last pocket contained, as he had suspected, several condoms in foil packets. Specials are immune to infection. Is she worried about getting pregnant? He imagined Nicole Callahan raising her own Genactive child, and shivered.
He repacked the bag, and spied his phone sitting on the counter between dining area and kitchen. He picked it up to check the time. She might be home by now. He considered waiting a little longer, then gave in and punched in her number.
"Frank?"
"Hi," he said. "Are you home yet?"
"Were you worried about me?"
"A little," he admitted. "So, are you?"
"I've only just reached the highway," she said. "I've been taking it easy, like you said. The road is plowed, but there's a dusting on the asphalt still, and it's kind of slick."
He looked at the small duffel on the table. "You left your bag here," he said, at a loss for anything else to say.
"That's not mine, it's Cheryl's," she said. "She left it at your place the morning she found you. One of your security guys thought it was mine, so he brought it to my office." A pause, then: "Did you look through it?"
"No." He felt his ears warming, both from the lie and from knowing he had stolen a peek into his girl Friday's private life. "I'm just going to drop it into her room."
"You do that," she said. "She might need it before long."
"Where are you now?"
"Still idling at the crossroad. I don't feel like splitting my attention between you and my driving, not on that stretch of road." She made a little sound. "Dammit. The snow is blowing sideways across the road. I can feel the wind rocking my car."
"Scared?"
"Hell, yes, I'm scared. I think I might just spend the night in my room at Central. Longer drive, but I won't be completely wrung out by the time I get there."
He wet his lips. "From where you're at, you're as close to my house as yours," he said. "And a lot closer than Central."
Silence.
"Nicole?"
"Are you talking about putting me up in a spare bedroom?"
He swallowed. "Possibly."
"Are you sure about this, Frank?"
"Not really," he said. "But it's what I want to do."
"I'm turning around," she said. "But as soon as I get there, we need to have a serious talk."
"About what?"
"When I get there, Frank. Right now I need to pay attention to the road." She disconnected.