Chapter #27Impostors in Unexpected Places by: Seuzz   The worst part of the next morning is showering, and not even Lydia's morning cocktail--a fortified Bloody Mary--can fully take the edge off as you wash and scrub and exfoliate. Afterward you wrap a fluffy bathrobe about yourself and check on the original woman: still sleeping soundly without a care on her face. You vaguely wonder if she might not like to stay that way for a very long time.
What a choice to have to make, you think to yourself as you pad into the kitchen to fix yourself another Bloody Mary and some breakfast. Give her a long and well-deserved vacation? Or get out of this body as quickly as you can? A night's sleep has let her personality settle even more heavily on you, and you deeply sympathize with her. Divorced, with a grown daughter (also divorced from a ne'er-do-well) and a lazy brother who's always hitting her up for money. Oh, she draws a very nice income from Proteus: Curt Straussler was very generous with her, and Jonathan thought to buy her loyalty with a big double-digit raise. But it's true what they say about money and happiness: you can only use money to try buying happiness for other people, never yourself.
At least, that's the variation Lydia has decided from bitter experience is closest to the truth.
You eat quickly and finish getting ready. Sensible skirt and thick blouse over the brassiere and girdle. Hose and pumps. A floral silk scarf. An old ring that belonged to her mother, a small necklace; a broach at the collar bone. Powder and lipstick. You regard yourself in the mirror turning this way and that with a sigh. Yes, it's definitely Lydia Rachels' body, no sign of a seam or flaw. Even the eyes. You stare into them, and even you, who know you're a fake, can't find a chink inside them that says "There's someone else here, someone underneath."
You're counting on that fact. Swann is too, but you care more for your own sake.
You gather up your billfold--double checking it for credit and debit cards and enough cash for small purchases--and purse, slip on the designer sunglasses--a present from her daughter--and step into the warm summer morning. "Good morning, Lydia," Tammy calls from next door.
"Oh, good morning!" you call back. The thirty-year-old girl--in shorts and tank top--squats back over the flower bed, digging. Such a nice girl. Too bad she's alone, with a five-year-old daughter. Her parents gave her the use of the house while they took off in their RV for the summer. She needs to get back on her feet, they told you, and asked you to keep an eye on her. You've done your best, you think as you walk to your car and slide in. A bell dings softly until you get buckled in. You've babysat the little girl--so well-mannered--while primly refraining from asking what her mother is doing during those evenings when she wants a sitter.
You adjust the rearview mirror, turn on the motor, and slide smoothly back into the street. You flick the radio to NPR. You like NPR. They're so sensible.
* * * * *
"Good morning, Mr. Straussler."
"Good morning, Lydia. How was your evening?"
"Very nice. And yours?" You treacherous little backstabbing Absalom!
"Fair enough. Any messages? Have we heard anything of Will Prescott?"
"The boy who left his truck, you mean? Nothing, I'm afraid."
"Any calls come in about him, let me know."
Jonathan goes into his office. You tap a key on the computer that activates the recording system.
The morning begins tediously enough: taking and sending messages, scheduling meetings, logging into the engineers' date planners to schedule items that they can't be troubled to take care of themselves. Patterson comes in--smiling pleasantly at you--and leaves after speaking only a few words to Straussler. You have earbuds plugged into your computer. With only a stroke of a key you can switch between Mozart and the conversations in Strausslers' office which, after being recorded for a spell, you can shift into iTunes with only the flick of another button.
Few of the eavesdropped conversations make much sense or seem very important: the usual kind of business stuff. But you're nervous enough that you stay at your station during lunch, ducking into the dining room only long enough to get some lunch. Straussler smiles when he passes through and asks if you're dieting. You smile brightly back and say that you're trying. Like a bite of my apple, you snake?
A little after one you get a call from Blankenship Motors, and since it concerns Prescott you transfer it to Straussler: the police found the sedan and traced the tags to Blankenship. Straussler calls Patterson, who comes over and disappears into the boss's office. Ten minutes later, he leaves. Once he's gone, you pull up the conversation and listen to it.
Jonathan gives Steve the news. Silence. Patterson only says, "Call in Shaw and Knotts."
Then Straussler speaks, apparently on his cell phone, since his line doesn't light up on your phone bank: "Proteus. You heard from Prescott?" Pause. "Come in for a talk. Nothing," he says in a louder voice.
Patterson: "Day squad?"
Straussler: "Got me, boss."
Patterson: "Well, book that flight to Diana. Tell 'em to stand by."
Straussler, apparently on his cell phone again: "This is Straussler. Prep a plane for Heathrow. How many?"
Patterson: "Two. One courier should be enough."
Straussler: "Two."
Patterson: "Call me when Shaw and Knotts get here." Sound of the door opening.
You return to your work, but your mind works furiously. Straussler was calling the private airfield, where Proteus keeps a jet. And it has something to do with you.
Then, thirty minutes later--
* * * * *
"May I help you," you ask, and try to keep the quaver out of your voice. You're smart enough not to yelp.
But Robert Prescott--broad chest and shoulders beneath a light t-shirt--and Verity Walker breeze right past your station with scarcely a glance at you, and go into Straussler's office without even knocking. You sit stunned for a minute, then with a trembling hand pull the ear buds from the computer and jam them directly into the recording device. Fuck the tape delay, you want to know in real time what the hell is going on.
Robert: "--home all night."
Straussler: "His folks know anything?"
Robert: "No. He's done it before. He's an adult."
Straussler: "His friends?"
Robert: "Not the ones we talked to, which are all the ones we know."
Verity: "I thought you tagged him."
Straussler: "It died a few hours later and we didn't get a chance to put another one on him. Yeah, Steve, Knotts and Shaw are here, but they got nothing. They say Prescott was out all night and none of his friends have heard from him."
Your heart hammers so hard it feels like your ribs will crack. Your brother and his girlfriend: fakes wearing masks?
Straussler: "Okay, boss says to go out, keep looking, play it normal, don't do anything out of character, but call as soon as you learn something. Knotts, have you been able to figure out anything about this trick the girl has?"
Verity: "It's nothing I picked up. You figure anything out by examining her?"
Straussler: "Nah, we'll have to take her apart. I just booked her for London. If Day squad has Prescott, and they come looking, we'll have her at least."
Robert: "If they come looking and find us--"
Straussler: "They shouldn't. I'm the only one who has to worry, and the boss has told me not to. If Prescott shows up again, even with them, glom onto him, learn what you can. Knotts, you should be able to bluff him into spilling useful stuff."
Robert: "This comes from the boss?"
Straussler: "I know how he thinks."
The door opens, and you quickly shift the ear buds back to the computer. There are low, muttered words you can't make out, and then Robert and Verity pass by. You eye them as they go: There is nothing in Robert's bearing that you could have spotted as being out of character; but Verity moves with an uncharacteristic swiftness. You stab blindly at the computer keys, trying to make it look like you're working.
Take her apart. Sounds like they were talking about Verity; they are sending her to London to do something horrible. That trick: Are they talking about her ability to ferret out the truth? From what Swann has told you, it seems like the kind of thing his "Fane" nemesis would be interested in.
And your brother? No one said anything about him. Is he dead? Or is being held prisoner someplace, like Verity presumably is?
You need help.
First, though, you call the airfield, as Lydia has had to do many times in the past. "Hi, Stella, this is Lydia. Would I be able to book a flight to Los Angeles tonight?"
"Sorry, girlfriend. We're gassing up for London right now."
"Well, I was just checking anyway. Oh, what time are you pushing out? Someone here was talking about flying out there, maybe he could hitch a ride?"
"ASAP, probably in an hour. But this is a restricted flight, I'm afraid. Sorry."
"I can book him commercial if I have to. Thanks, love."
You drum your fingers. There's no way that you can accomplish anything by yourself. You need to call Swann. You get up to go to the restroom.
But as you close the door behind you, you have another thought. Swann seems like a lunatic, and he seems to be operating his own rogue operation. Rick, Frank, and Joe seem much more capable, and there's three of them. Maybe you should call them instead, even though it would involve telling them what Swann has been getting you up to.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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