She would not, ever in this lifetime, tolerate a threat to the precious life that was her daughter.
She couldn’t spirit Ashley away, hide her from all danger. Ashley was a continent away, doing her post-grad work at Stanford. She was an excellent student, a self-driven overachiever who was willing to work her butt off to reach her goals. But she was also young, and even if Felice explained the danger to her, Ashley wouldn’t understand the gravity of the situation, wouldn’t cooperate with a massive interruption of her plans.
Therefore, something had to be done about Xavier.
Al entered the tank then. Whatever his thoughts were about her presence here, so soon after her last visit, they didn’t show on his face. He’d make a killing at the Vegas poker tables if he ever decided to take up gambling. “What’s up?” he asked casually as he, too, went to the coffeemaker and selected a pod.
Al wasn’t a casual-type man. He could project the attitude if he wanted, but he was always thinking, always weighing, always trying to steer events his way. He knew why she was here.
Nevertheless, Felice went about systematically outlining the situation and her intentions—some of them, anyway. “Subject C is showing more signs of … instability,” she replied. “Nothing dramatic, but out of her usual routine.”
He waited until his coffee cup was full, then removed it and sipped before saying nonchalantly, “Such as?”
She felt a flash of annoyance that he’d asked, because they had trackers on Subject C’s car; they knew exactly where she’d gone yesterday afternoon. She never took Al for a fool, and he returned the favor. If he was doing this dance, it was for a reason.
“You don’t think driving miles into Virginia to a strip mall, bypassing several malls much closer that have the same stores, is a break in her routine?” All she put into her tone was mild curiosity.
He sighed. “Did she do anything nefarious at these stores?”
“She went to a sporting goods store.”
“The horror,” he said, keeping his tone so bland that the unexpressed sarcasm was sharper than it would have been if he’d snapped at her. Despite herself, Felice found herself smiling, because she liked a good comeback. “Her credit card shows she bought some running shoes, a jogging outfit, and some wasp spray.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “I know that. I also know no charges at any other stores showed up, so she either paid cash for what she bought at them or she went specifically to that store and nowhere else. Again, she passed other, closer, sporting goods stores. Why that one? Why so far into Virginia?”
“Maybe she hadn’t planned to stop anywhere; maybe she just went for a drive, on an impulse.”
“Please,” she said, leaving the Don’t be an idiot unspoken. “She’s programmed not to be impulsive. If she’s becoming impulsive, then the process isn’t holding. And taking a spontaneous drive isn’t the only thing different that she’s doing.”
“Such as?”
“She went running late yesterday evening when she got home. The impression my man got, the very words he used, was that it was as if she was starting training.”
“That’s just someone’s impression, and I assume you used people who know nothing about her. She bought running shoes and a new outfit yesterday, then she went running. That isn’t exactly unexpected. For all we know, people in her office started talking about dieting, getting in shape, and she decided to go along with it too.”
Felice thought about that. “Feasible,” she finally agreed, because it was. Kind of on the outer limits, but still within the bounds of feasibility. “If she had activated the new cell phone she bought, which she hasn’t. She went to the trouble of buying a new cell phone the day after she broke hers, but she still hasn’t even put the battery in it. Hell, why didn’t she let them activate it in the store? That was on Saturday. This is Tuesday. All of the little things, taken together, form a picture I don’t like.”
He was silent, which meant the deal with the cell phone had bothered him, too. That wasn’t normal behavior. Going for a drive, doing some impulse shopping, maybe going for an after-work jog—those things were unlike her, but not, in and of themselves, enough to make anyone push the panic button.
But he couldn’t explain the cell phone. Who bought a cell phone and didn’t put the battery in it? People like them, that’s who, people who knew just putting the battery in activated the GPS, put out a signal that let them be traced. All over the world, people were voluntarily carrying automatic tracking devices that, knowing the nature of the world and governments, could one day be used to hunt them down and keep them under control.
“Given that all of this started when her supervisor possibly alerted her to the difference in time lapse,” she continued, driving her point home, “we have to assume that did trigger some sort of mental … adjustment.”
“Even if some of her former personal qualities are resurfacing, that doesn’t mean her memory is,” Al said. “She has no way of accessing any records, no way of knowing where to start. Even if she did look, all she’d find is a gap of two years. All the paperwork is tied up, and leads to dead ends. You know that. We covered every base.”
“Unless her memory comes back, too.”
“What are the odds of that? Aren’t you more likely to get hit by a lightning bolt when you walk out the door?”
“Yes, of course, given that the odds of getting hit by lightning are surprisingly high. But you tell me: considering the subject matter, exactly what kind of odds can we afford to tolerate concerning Subject C?”
She had him there. The only logical answer was zero. None.
What she wanted was for Al to accept the reality of the situation and stop protecting Subject C. She had her own resources, but nothing like what Al could pull into action. If he would handle the people and let her handle the spin, they could come through this—maybe damaged, with doubt and suspicion following them for the rest of their lives, but those lives at least wouldn’t be spent in prison, and on death row at that.
“I think you’re borrowing trouble,” he finally said. “Even if she did remember everything, what’s she going to do? She, of all people, will want what we did kept quiet.”
“Another question about odds: how likely is she to recover all her memory? Given the process, a partial recall is the more likely outcome.”
“Given the process, it’s a wonder she’s a functioning human being at all,” Al said sharply.
“She agreed to it.”
“Only because the other option was a bullet in the head.”
Felice had the beginnings of a headache, and she rubbed her forehead. Nothing about this situation was going to be easy. Al obviously wasn’t going to step up to the plate, even though they were practically getting slapped in the face by the danger signs. She’d have to handle it.
Very well, then, she’d do it her way.
But for Al’s benefit, she said, “Fine. We’ll just keep an eye on her for a while longer. You’d better pray you’re right, or we’re all going down.”
Chapter Fifteen
Discovering that she wasn’t in such bad physical condition after all was a nice surprise, Lizette had thought as she got ready that morning. Her thighs were a little sore, but not bad. When she got home from work this afternoon and had a better dinner than just a protein bar, she’d go again—and a little farther this time, maybe faster. She probably shouldn’t, she should probably let her muscles rest a day, but she was already eager to hit the pavement.
She was just getting in her car in the driveway when Maggie, clad in sweatpants and a tee shirt, came out on her front porch.
“Lizette, wait a minute!”
A little annoyed, a little harried—after all, a morning chat wasn’t in her schedule—Lizette paused and looked at her neighbor over the top of her car. “I have to get to work—”
“I know, this’ll be quick.” Maggie hurried to the edge of the porch and beckoned Lizette over. For once she didn’t have the little yap
per with her, though as soon as Lizette noticed that fact she heard the dog begin barking inside the house, protesting being left alone.
Resigned, Lizette went over to the porch, stepping gingerly through the dew-wet grass. She so didn’t want to go to work with wet feet. “Is something wrong?”
“Could be.” Maggie wasn’t wearing any makeup, Lizette noticed, and she looked a bit younger without it. That was strange. “Listen—don’t look, whatever you do don’t turn your head, but there’s been a strange car parked on the street since yesterday. One car left about seven this morning, and another took its place. It’s like they’re watching someone. I don’t like it, makes me feel weird. I wonder if they’re casing the houses in the neighborhood, looking for one to rob.”
Strange that when someone told you not to look somewhere, it was hard not to. Lizette concentrated on not looking. Chills ran over her entire body. So it wasn’t her imagination; someone was watching her. She didn’t know whether to feel gratified or terrified.
Don’t look, don’t look. She tried to think what to say. “Should we call the police, have them come check it out?”
“I don’t know.” Maggie looked nowhere except at Lizette. “It just strikes me as worrisome.”
If it was a burglary gang casing the neighborhood, Lizette knew exactly what she should do—and suddenly she knew how to handle the other possible situation, too.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said firmly. “Thanks for keeping an eye on things.”
Maggie looked a little startled. “What’re you going to do?”
“Get his tag number.”
And she did. She didn’t have to back out of her driveway this morning because she’d backed in the afternoon before, in keeping with her new parking mode. As she started the car she carefully examined all the cars parked on the street and spotted the intruder almost immediately, even though the car itself was unremarkable, a beige domestic sedan. She knew what cars belonged on this street, and that wasn’t one of them. And there was a man in it, a man who was kind of slumped to the side as if trying to hide from view. If she hadn’t been alerted, and hadn’t been looking for him, she might well have driven right by without noticing anything unusual.
He was parked so that if she took her normal route to work she would turn in the opposite direction from where he was parked; he’d be able to pull into the street right behind her. That meant she couldn’t easily get his tag number.
There was also the concern that he might pull a pistol and shoot at her, but she didn’t think so. Whoever was watching her had done nothing except watch; she didn’t know why, she didn’t know who it was, but so far no one had tried to harm her. And if Maggie had spotted some would-be burglars, they weren’t likely to be armed, because the jail sentences were so much worse if they were caught with weapons.
Cautiously, she stopped at the end of her driveway, looked both ways for traffic—nothing in sight—and pulled into the street. She immediately stomped on the brake, slammed the transmission into reverse, and, tires squealing as they fought for traction, shot backward toward the suspicious car. She zoomed past in reverse and saw the guy’s startled face looking out the window.
As soon as she was past him, she slammed on the brakes again, quickly scribbled down his tag number, and pulled even with him and stopped, hitting the button that lowered the passenger-side window. Cautiously, he also lowered his window. “Hey,” she yelled angrily, showing him the notepad where she’d written down his tag number. “If you’re casing houses in this neighborhood to rob, buddy, you’d better think twice, because I’ve got your license plate number.”
He couldn’t have looked more stunned if she’d rammed his car instead of just getting his tag. “I—what? No. I’m not—honest, lady, this isn’t—”
“Then you need to get your ass off this street,” she barked. “And don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for someone, not all this time. You think people haven’t noticed you? Git!”
He got.
Her heart was beating faster, she noticed, as she watched the car turn at the first intersection and disappear, but it was kind of a pleasant sensation, as if she were riding some kind of high. She raised the passenger window, lowered the driver’s window, and gave Maggie a thumbs-up and a grin as she drove past. Maggie returned the salute.
Two birds killed with one stone, Lizette thought with satisfaction. If the guy had been a burglar casing the joint, he was gone. If he’d been a private detective or something like that who’d been watching her, he was still gone, but the report he’d give was that neighbors had noticed him and she’d gotten his tag number and accused him of being a burglar. She was still flying somewhat under the radar.
As soon as he was out of sight, the man in the beige car thumbed a number into his cell phone. “I’ve been made,” he said tersely. “A neighbor spotted me. I saw them talking. Then the subject got my tag number and accused me of casing houses, said she’d give the number to the cops if there were any robberies.”
There was a pause as his handler weighed the ramifications. “Are you certain that she didn’t make you beforehand?”
“I can’t be certain, but I did see the neighbor looking out her window several times, and as soon as the subject came out to go to work, the neighbor came hot-footing it out of her house and called the subject over to talk to her.”
“Okay. Regardless, you’re burned. I’ll call this in, let the client know.”
Thirty seconds later, Felice said, “Discontinue observation.”
She disconnected, then erased the call history from her phone. She’d do it her way from here on out.
Chapter Sixteen
Diana had another errand to run at lunch—new sneakers for her youngest, who had for some reason decided to flush one of his, requiring a visit from a plumber—and Lizette had her own errand, so they went their separate ways.
Lunchtime traffic was a bitch, as always. Getting to her bank took twice as long as it would have during a non-rush period. Lizette was kind of glad for the delay, because what she was about to do felt either important or stupid, and she wasn’t certain which it was.
How much money should she take out in cash? She was able to save some of her paycheck and was consistent about it, but she had her mortgage and utilities to pay, and real estate in the D.C. area, even the more distant communities, wasn’t cheap. She had some money in CDs, despite an interest rate that was so low she was almost paying the bank to take her money, because it was safe. Most of her savings were in a 401(k).
She had roughly five thousand dollars in her checking account, but her mortgage payment was automatically deducted from the account and if she emptied it out she wouldn’t be able to make her payment. The thought horrified her. She’d never had a check bounce, never been behind on any of her payments.
But if she needed cash to survive, if she suddenly had to bolt—
Taking out two thousand seemed to be a nice compromise. She’d have enough to function, but that would leave enough money in the account to cover her mortgage, for the next payment at least. After that, she didn’t know.
Maybe she was morphing into someone who was way more spontaneous and knew all kinds of spy-shit stuff, but she just couldn’t make herself skip out on a bill.
Spy shit? The thought was electrifying. Holy crap! Was that it? Was that what she’d been involved in?
It kind of made sense, but it was scary. She couldn’t see herself as a spy. But then, if she’d been through some kind of brainwashing that had turned her into someone else, she wouldn’t see that, would she?
Her head was beginning to hurt, which she took as a sign to stop thinking about it and just take care of business. At least the headache felt more like a normal headache, and hadn’t ambushed her. Maybe that was a sign she was adjusting, or—or something. She sighed. It seemed as if everything had multiple possible explanations, and how the hell was she supposed to guess the right answer when the most reasonable of the explanations were the one
s that didn’t feel right?
The bank was busy. She checked the time; if she was going to have lunch at all, she’d have to get something to go and eat it on the way back to the office.
By the time she’d finished the transaction and had two thousand dollars in cash safely stowed in her wallet, she had half an hour left before she had to be back at her desk. There was a barbecue restaurant not far from the office; it wasn’t her favorite, but at least it was fast, and saved time because she’d pass it on her way back.
She thought about calling ahead and placing her order, but that would mean putting the battery in her phone, and she felt uneasy enough that she simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. Phones gave her the heebie-jeebies now, thinking that someone might be listening to every word she said.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, she had twenty minutes left. The restaurant enjoyed a decent crowd, because even though the food was only acceptable, it was fast. Some customers were eating at the handful of tables in the joint—placing their orders at a bar, getting their food on a tray, then selecting their own table—while others were leaving with to-go boxes in hand. There were three employees behind the counter, and unlike the girl at the sporting goods place they seemed to enjoy their jobs, even joking with the regulars.
Lizette ordered a sandwich to go, which she could at least eat on the way back to work. The man behind the counter, a potbellied bearded guy who looked old enough to be her father, winked at her as he offered her change. Every woman who came through the door probably got that wink and a smile. She sized him up, classified him as harmless, and headed for the exit. An older woman coming in held the door for her. Lizette smiled, nodded her head, and continued on into the warmth of a summer afternoon that smelled of smoked meat.