Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

I could see why. His next foothold was higher than his knee. That angle, and the pressure of lifting himself, would be very dangerous. He placed his foot on the hold, but didn’t push up, testing himself. He reached with his left hand and let his arm do the lifting instead, making it to the next level. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. From there, he had to move to the right to access higher holds. At each difficult move, he rested, pulling himself up with his arms for the most part, rather than pushing up with his legs as we did. Up and then over. Up and then over the other way. And he did it. He reached the top of the wall. He stayed there for a moment. I could see he was breathing heavily. The rest of us would edge over to the flat part of the wall and rappel down. It was much quicker, but involved forceful kicking. And with Knobby, quick was no longer in his vocabulary. With slow, deliberate movements, he came down the same way he’d gone up. I didn’t relax until both of his feet were back on the ground.

  “You did it!” I said in an excited whisper as I hurried to help him out of the harness. “You did it!”

  Knobby looked at me. “I did what?” He stepped free of the harness and hung it on its hook. He winked at me, still taking deep breaths. “I didn’t do anything. I went right to bed.”

  “You climbed the wall,” said another voice, a voice that carried very well through the still night air.

  We both looked at the figure on the porch, silhouetted by the floodlights. He came down the porch steps where we could see him, but didn’t approach us. Nitro.

  Busted.

  My voice didn’t carry as well, and I didn’t want to shout. Some people might be trying to sleep. It was clear we were going to have to face the music. I gave Knobby an encouraging glance and tilted my head toward Nitro. He nodded in complete understanding and agreement.

  “How long were you standing there?” I asked when we were close enough.

  “From the beginning. I came out to give you this.” I just then noticed that he held a 9 X 12 manila envelope. “This was messengered over a few minutes ago.”

  I took the envelope, knowing the subject had not changed completely. The envelope was stamped in red, CONFIDENTIAL, diagonally across the full length. In smaller block print, horizontal and centered, were the words “MONTHLY DISCLOSURE.” It wasn’t a big deal. Every month I got a report on what was happening in the CURDS world, including mission summaries from the other two CURDS teams. It was messengered to avoid any chance of getting lost or stolen from the USPS or from vanishing into cyberspace if the email server hiccupped. At my discretion, I could share what was necessary with the rest of my team. Often, there was really no need for them to hear any of it. On occasion they liked to find out the final disposition of our captures, for example, but didn’t need to hear about Team C’s excursion into Bolivia in search of tainted pukacapas that turned out to be nothing but overcooked empanadas. “Thank you, Nitro,” I said, tucking the envelope under my arm.

  “It was my idea,” said Knobby immediately. “I made her help me. It was a safety measure. If you have to report someone, report me. Helena was coerced. I’ll sign a sworn affidavit if I have to.”

  “That’s Roxy’s department,” said Nitro. His face showed no particular expression. I couldn’t tell if he was on our side here or not. “Not that she’ll hear anything about it.” He stopped talking, letting us absorb the meaning behind his words. “You managed not to injure yourself, so, technically speaking, I have nothing to report. I’m sure if Helena assisted you, she had good reason—.” Here I raised my index finger preparing to point out Knobby’s very good reasons for his climb, but Nitro waved my interruption away. “—But I don’t have to know about it. In fact, I’d better not know anything more about it.”

  “Thank you, Nitro,” I said quietly.

  We started to edge past him to go back into the house, but Nitro put a hand on Knobby’s shoulder to hold him back. “Knobby, are you planning to try any more foolhardy stunts?” Nitro made Knobby look him right in the eyes, trying to be intimidating. He had the authority to intimidate, but not the stature. Knobby had a couple of inches on him at least, and something like thirty pounds.

  “No, sir. That was the only one,” said Knobby respectfully. He stepped up onto the porch and flipped the switch to turn off the floodlights. Darkness descended and the crickets rejoiced.

  Chapter Three

  As we quietly entered the house, Knobby said, “thank you, Helena. I’m hitting the shower and going to bed. I need to go to C House tomorrow and clean the floors. You take it easy and heal.”

  I gave his hand a squeeze. “Always take care of the caretaker,” I said. Then I took my confidential envelope and went upstairs to my own bed. I was mildly sleepy, but not enough to turn in, so I turned on my bedside lamp, put on the telethon for quiet background noise, took out the dispatch, and started reading. The first section was mission reports from the teams in alphabetical order. I skimmed ours, just enough to make sure Badger, who submits our mission reports, hadn’t gotten anything seriously wrong. It started with our capture of Boyd right here in D.C., covered the Grundy farm, Casper Ferruz, and Rennet Butler, and finished with our exposure of General Emilio Gacha which resulted in us taking down a major Italian crime family. Commendations were submitted for Sir Haughty, Sylvia Pendragon, and the Nicely twins, for engineering the rescue of those of us stupid enough to get captured.

  That was followed by a section called “DISPOSITIONS,” which told the aftermath of each incident. I took a highlighter out of the drawer of my nightstand, suddenly shocked by a jab of pain from my ribs. I gasped, and slowed my movement. I was not enjoying this injury thing. The muscle aches were already manageable, but those darn ribs were going to take a long time. They would feel fine until I twisted a certain way or bumped that exact spot and it always caught me by surprise. Fortunately, Nitro had left a couple of pills and a glass of water on my nightstand, and I put down the dispatch for a moment while I swallowed them. I went back to highlighting the dispositions. I’d be sharing most of it with the rest of the team later. Except for the commendations. My policy, and CURDS command policy in general, was not to inform the recipient of a commendation; that the honor would only come into play with promotions or transfers. Knowledge of them at other times would result in conceit, jealousy and unhealthy competition, so it was simply noted in their personnel file and otherwise forgotten. Logically, it was nonsense. I was supposed to be dealing with adults. But these are the kind of interpersonal relationships a coordinator has to deal with. You don’t open the door to dissent. Ever. Besides, there’d been other commendations over the years and everyone had one or two on file. Overall, they weren’t as distinctive as they seemed.

  I continued on to the next section to see what Team B was up to, and carefully highlighted a few passages, then read Team C’s mission reports as well. Another section held global news regarding the entire CURDS organization and I extensively highlighted that also. By the time I finished it was nearly three in the morning. I was ready to sleep. The pain meds were doing their job. But I didn’t want to oversleep. I needed to get myself back on a normal schedule, so I could disrupt it at the same time as everyone else when we got a mission. I put the dispatch and highlighter in the drawer, set my alarm for seven, and turned out the light. There was still the soft glow from the TV, where a blond, male pianist I didn’t recognize was pounding out a rendition of Mozart’s greatest hits. I wanted to stay awake long enough to glimpse the next pledge total, either local or national, but I didn’t make it.

  Seven o’clock came. And went. The alarm woke me and I hit the snooze, listening to the house, wondering if anyone else was awake. It was quiet, so I let myself fall back to sleep. About ten minutes later, which felt like ten seconds, the alarm went off again. This time I heard some faint sounds of someone stirring, heard a toilet flush, water running. Carefully, I stretched and shook the sleep out of my head. It would have been nice to crawl back under the covers, but that wasn’t the image I wanted to evoke. Whether
I was or not, I wanted to appear as fit as I possibly could. It was bad enough to wake up once to Nitro checking my pulse. I didn’t want that to happen again. Even though I didn’t quite feel it, I got out of bed and put on my chipper face. I was a little stiff, so I did some experimental windmill toe touches next to the bed and twisted slowly side to side. I needed more milk. My body, smarter than I, was beginning to crave the calcium.

  I dressed quickly in the same barely used loungewear I’d worn last night and headed downstairs to make coffee. As I passed the living room, I saw the giant TV glowing, the oversize face of Banana Harris center screen. I got a little bit excited before I realized they were replaying the announcement from the previous evening. There was Clara the raccoon, climbing all over Ms. Harris as she spoke. There was the diagram and the jumping white arrow. I felt good, enjoying the reminder of her success and taking a vicarious share of it. I diverted to the kitchen, staying quiet because Nitro’s room was just a short hallway away, and Knobby was just downstairs.

  There’s something about the process of making coffee that is almost as good as actually drinking it. I suppose it’s anticipation, but I think there’s more to it. Maybe the smell of the ground beans had caffeine in it, too. While the coffeepot started to gurgle, I poured myself a glass of milk and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. I grabbed a paper plate and took the buttered toast and milk into the living room to eat in front of the TV, waiting for the aroma from the coffeepot to rouse the others. I took a coaster from the stack next to the Kleenex box and put it under my glass. The telethon was scheduled to end at 4 o’clock this afternoon and that would be another mass event viewing. But for now, it was just something to look at while I ate breakfast.

  I’d come in during a local broadcast and it was currently hosted by Manuel de Minuet, the D.C. news anchor. He was introducing a woman who had lost her eight-year-old daughter to Offensive Obstruction over two years ago during a tainted Mac ‘N Cheese scare. It wasn’t Kraft, but some off brand that shortly thereafter died a quick death of its own. They showed a picture of the bright-eyed blond girl in a soccer uniform posing with teammates, the camera zooming in on her face as the bereaved mother told her story. It was manipulative, but standard telethon fare. When you have to fill 32 hours, your standards drop considerably. In the background, smooth flute music floated unobtrusively as one image faded into the next.

  I bit into my second piece of toast and suddenly felt a sharp pain in my upper left arm. It was entirely different from the pains I’d been feeling from my ribs. This one was not localized, but radiated up to my shoulder and down past my elbow. My first thought was Oh My God, I’m having a heart attack. I dropped the toast onto the coffee table with a spattering of tiny brown crumbs and reflexively rubbed my arm. Then I heard an electronic whine, the TV picture flickered, and the oversized stern face of Miss Chiff appeared. “Ah, Helena!” she said. “It’s good to see you up and about so early.”

  I was going to say, “Not now, Miss Chiff. I’m having a heart attack,” but the pain vanished as quickly as it had appeared. I swallowed the toast I was chewing with difficulty and took a gulp of milk to wash it down before I spoke. “Good Morning, Miss Chiff. I’ll alert the team.” I started to get up from the couch.

  “No need. Didn’t you read the manual?”

  The manual. When we had arrived home from Italy, our newly completed tech upgrade had been marked by a pile of extras and a manual, but Mom had shown up and then I’d gone to bed and, “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t had the opportunity yet.”

  “Badger should have warned you, but no doubt he didn’t expect it to come up this soon. In short, your STD’s include an alert system. Much more efficient. We should have done this years ago. The others should be arriving shortly.” Just before leaving on our latest mission, we’d all received Subcutaneous Tracking Devices in our arms. It seems that was what had caused the sudden pain. I was glad I wasn’t having a heart attack, but wondered at the feasibility of this system.

  A moment later, the troops began stampeding down the stairs, some of them still wrapping robes around themselves. “Nitro!” I heard Roxy yell. Her heeled slippers clicked on the tiled floor as she zipped around the end of the staircase and through the kitchen toward Nitro’s room, trailing tiny pieces of feathers from the trim on her robe. “Nitro! I think I’m having a heart attack!”

  Before she had finished the sentence, it was being echoed by Sir Haughty, racing right after her, his red silk dressing gown billowing behind him like a deflated parachute. Roxy reached Nitro’s door first and began pounding, more feathers molting from her robe floating all the way back to the kitchen. “Nitro! We need you!” Much longer and her robe would be as bald as a newborn.

  Nitro opened his door, having slipped into a pair of jeans, pulling an orange t-shirt over his head. “Calm down, calm down. It’s not a heart attack!” He reached up to smooth his hair with one hand and came out carrying shoes and socks in the other.

  Miss Chiff and I waited and watched from the living room as Nitro turned them both around bodily using his wrists and elbows, and pointed them in our direction. At the same time, Badger, also fully dressed, came down cell phone in hand, followed quickly by Sylvia, Billings, and the Nicely twins in various states of applied clothing. Sylvia slipped her eye patch over her head, positioned it over her damaged left eye and took a seat on the nearest couch. “I told you guys,” said Badger, who probably had the manual read before my head had hit the pillow yesterday morning, “you’ll feel a pain in your arm when Miss Chiff wants you. No more door knocking like it’s Christmas morning. Think of it as a poke.”

  “A poke with a branding iron!” said Roxy, rubbing her arm. “What is it, a few hundred thousand volts?”

  “Maybe I can tone it down,” suggested Nitro, as he sat and began putting on his socks and shoes. “I think I can get into the source code, but it does need to wake you from a sound sleep.” He finished tying his shoes and sat up straight. “Would that void the warranty, Miss Chiff?” he asked the TV.

  “I have no idea.” She sounded like she didn’t really care about the warranty.

  “And what if one of us is really having a heart attack?” asked Sir Haughty. “How will we tell the difference? They didn’t really think this through, now, did they?”

  People began taking their seats on the couches, which filled up rapidly. Roxy and Sylvia joined me, while Badger, Sir Haughty, and Nitro took another couch, leaving the third for Billings and the Nicely twins. Billings seemed to have gained control over his ability to sit next to Avis, though he did prop his left ankle on top of his right knee, grabbing hold to keep it there. I picked up my glass of milk, making sure that Nitro saw me. He gave me an amused, approving smile. At the same time, we heard heavy footsteps come up from the basement. Knobby came upstairs, fastening the last button on his workman’s coveralls, clomping around in his thick work boots. “Well, I’m off to C House,” he was saying, not even looking up. He hadn’t received an implant, hadn’t gotten poked, and had no idea we were all assembled for a reason. I began to drink the milk, intending to chug the entire glass. That’s the best way to drink milk, anyway. Milk is not for sipping. Milk is for gulping and chugging and smacking.

  “Mr. Olivieri, please join us,” said Miss Chiff on the TV.

  Knobby stopped fussing with his coveralls and his hands fell to his sides. He stared at the TV and at all of us together on the couches.

  This invitation was so unexpected, I found myself spewing a large gulp of milk across the living room. It puddled on the coffee table. Droplets soaked into the carpet and beaded on the TV screen. There were drops of milk all over Miss Chiff’s larger-than-life face. “Oh, my!” I grabbed several Kleenex from the box and quickly began soaking up the spill. The wad in my hand mostly soaked up the puddle on the table and I left it there to finish the job, but I grabbed more and began dabbing at the droplets as quick as I could. I dabbed at the TV screen carefully, soaking up drops of milk from Miss Chiff’
s collar, cheek, forehead and silver hair bun, as always a perfect circle, while she watched me sternly, peering down through the half-rims perched on the end of her nose. She cleared her throat, and I slowed, then stopped dabbing. I’d at least been careful not to wipe, which probably would have damaged the screen, but dabbing doesn’t really feel like cleaning and you don’t want to stop. Not unless you are being frowned upon. “Are you quite finished, Ms. Montana?” Ouch, that stung. She normally called me Helena, and the team members by their surnames out of respect for my authority. I slunk back to my seat on the couch with a mumbled apology, forcing myself to ignore yet another drop in the lower corner, sitting on the back side of a picture frame.

  Meanwhile, Knobby was still standing there in the entryway, dumbfounded. “Yes, Mr. Olivieri. Please have a seat.” There were no seats left on the couches, so he pulled over the wheeled chair from the writing desk and, as was his style, turned it backward and straddled it. Now that she had everyone’s undivided attention, she got down to business. “I’m sure all of you saw the announcement from Banana Harris on the telethon regarding the development of a colonic pacemaker.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I confirmed for everyone.

  “Then I’m sorry to say that late last night, the lab at the Mayo Clinic was broken into. Clara the raccoon was stolen.”

  There was a collective gasp and a few disbelieving denials. “That’s awful, Miss Chiff,” I said. “How can we help?” I was very concerned about both Clara and Banana Harris, but this kind of thing was not our usual line of work. It seemed to me either FBI or local police should be able to handle it. There didn’t appear to be any actual Uber involved. Aside from that, I was currently disabled and therefore housebound. Was she just keeping us in the loop or did she have something else in mind?

  “Mr. Olivieri, I believe you have some background in animal husbandry, do you not?”