Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37)

by Robert J. Crane

  My attention had caught on a photo of Bilson, looking a little younger, and posed, grinning, next to former President Gerry Harmon.

  Bilson moved out from behind his desk, easing slowly to the picture. He glanced at me, and his usual smile turned a little sad. “Do you miss him?”

  I froze. “I wasn't a huge fan when he was in office, and Gondry seems nice enough, so–”

  “No,” Bilson said, looking straight at me. He raised a finger to his temple. “I meant do you miss having him...in here.”

  Now I was starting to feel the discomfort. Two times in two days people had referenced knowing that I'd had a former president in my head, yet they seemed to know he was gone, too. Which was interesting, since that wasn't a story I'd been spreading around.

  Bilson must have sensed my discomfort, because he took the pressure off. “Everyone knows.”

  “Can I ask what they 'know?'” I looked at him. “Because if what you just said about me is true, I'm guilty of...well, a lot.”

  “You want to know the official Washington rumor?” Bilson fiddled with his jacket buttons. “Gerry Harmon was a metahuman with telepathic powers, who had a plan to use that special serum that magnifies powers to take us all over. Mentally, I mean.” His smile returned, but less smarmy. “Confirm or deny?”

  “That was true,” I said. “He got really close, too.”

  Bilson didn't show much reaction to that. “You stopped him. Nearing the last minute.”

  “I would have done it sooner but I was kinda on the run from the law at the time.” I kept my eyes on the picture, but Bilson reacted, just a little, in my peripheral vision.

  “Like I told you outside Bridget's apartment, you're a perfect guardian angel, and after Revelen, the world sees it,” Bilson said. “We should be proclaiming your every victory loudly to the rooftops.”

  “Look, I'm not trying to fight with you,” I said, finally turning and facing him, “but I watched cable news while I was on the run. I caught you magnifying my every fault the last couple years every chance you got. Why the change of heart?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Bilson said, and his smile faded. “But...fair enough. You're right. I did you wrong. Very wrong. I can admit it. I knew you killed Harmon. The rumor mill was loud and clear about that–”

  “Oh, well, if the rumor mill said it, it must be true.”

  Bilson let out a mirthless chuckle. “You have a point. But there was peripheral evidence. I'm not looking for you to confirm your involvement, but Harmon did a great job covering his tracks in framing you.”

  I let that stand, though I was growing more and more suspicious Bilson was a cog in the Network that had done the actual job for Harmon, because that didn't seem like the sort of thing I could just get him to admit. “He did indeed,” I said. “Because I was the only one he perceived could stop him.”

  “And you did,” Bilson said. “Marvelously. With only an entire wall of the Oval Office as a casualty, which is impressive considering everything he threw at you. The entire military. Law enforcement. Your own friends.”

  “Yeah, it was a rough couple months,” I said, feeling the discomfort pulsate through my veins. “Fine. You made a mistake backing Harmon. But what changed your mind about me?”

  “The problem with people in this world,” Bilson said, “is they get settled in their ways of thinking. You know, like, uh–”

  “'Sienna Nealon is an evil monster we should hunt to the ends of the earth?'”

  “Exactly,” Bilson's eyes lit up. “We get caught up in our own point of view. The human is an emotional creature. You can't argue a person out of their position. We make our decisions, and then we will move heaven and earth to defend them, throwing out increasingly erratic statements to cover for them, even as the iceberg melts beneath us. You will nearly never change someone's mind unless they are open to it. And that's the way it was with me, I'm not too proud to say.”

  I searched his face for hints of lying. He was good, I'd give him that. “Well, I'm glad you came around,” I said lamely, looking for a way out for both of us.

  “I'm glad I did, too,” Bilson said, smile fading. “But you never did answer my original question.”

  “Hm?”

  “Do you miss having him up here?” Bilson pointed to his head again.

  I took a deep breath, looking back at the photo of Harmon. “It's certainly a lot quieter up here these days. I miss the powers, that's for sure.” Harmon was wearing a plastered-on smile. It looked totally sincere, but having had the benefit of knowing the man, knowing his thoughts, I knew it was fake.

  “I can hardly imagine what it would have been like,” Bilson said, voice laced with quiet awe. “Harmon was the single greatest political operator of our time. He was a man who could shift a person's paradigm in real time, while you watched. You know, as he talked to voters?”

  “Because he was reading their mind and changing it for them,” I said, giving Bilson the side-eye.

  “I know that, now,” Bilson said, a little defensively. “But watching him when he started his first national campaigns, you know, as a VP candidate, it was like watching a master work. Sure, we know he was 'cheating' at this point, but the awe that he inspired...well, it's hard to just erase that. Kind of like if we found out a sports legend was metahuman. Yes, I'd distantly think a little less of them, but it'd be tough to bring my brain around to completely disassociate their achievements from them given the new information.” He looked over at me. “What...what was he like?”

  How to answer that? Carefully, I decided, and quickly. “He was about what you'd expect. Quick-witted, intelligent. Dangerously intelligent. I'm not sure if it was entirely based on his mind-reading, but he was amazing at picking the weaknesses in people.”

  “I knew him a little,” Bilson said, and gave me a hopeful look. “Did he ever mention that?”

  Boy, had he. Not wanting to share Harmon's rather dim opinion of Bilson, though, I said, “Maybe in passing? He talked a lot. I didn't always listen.”

  Bilson slowly shook his head. “Such a loss. It was the Scotland succubus, then? The one who nearly took over their country?” He seemed to search his memory. “Rose Steward?”

  I couldn't help the seething look that came over me, causing my eyes to twitch at the corners at the mere mention of her name. Even still. “Yeah. That was her.”

  “Such a terrible loss,” Bilson said quietly. “A terrible waste.”

  He seemed to be voicing genuine remorse for my loss, which was strange, to say the least. I hadn't done a formal survey, but I had to believe your average person on the street probably considered it good that I'd lost the accumulation of abilities that pushed me closer to godlike powers than was comfortable for most people. At least those with a brain.

  After a moment, Bilson seemed to switch tacks. “So...if you could paint a canvas of your ideal life–”

  “I wouldn't. I'm terrible at the arts.”

  Bilson chuckled. “Metaphorically. If you could design your ideal life, what would it look like?”

  “Well, there wouldn't be any painting.”

  “No, I meant–”

  “I really hate paint. It smells terrible. Get a little on your hand and it sticks there, possibly forever–”

  “But–”

  “You have to use acetone to get it off, and that's even worse smelling than the paint.”

  “Okay, forget painting, forget I said anything about paint.” Bilson drew a breath, let it out slow. “What would your ideal life look like?”

  I surveyed his office, probably not-so-subtly looking for an escape route. “I don't know.”

  “Well, what are you into in your spare time?” He smiled. “Not sports, we know that much. Though, I must say, you might enjoy taking in a game in person. There's a different energy to being there versus watching on TV. It's fun. An event.”

  “I've gone,” I said. “You're right, there is. The amount of people is disquieting. Also, I gotta be
careful.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How so?”

  “Well,” I said dryly, “think about it. You know the Kiss Cam?”

  “Yeah...?”

  “With me, it'd become a snuff film.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose it would. But seriously...” His amusement faded. “...What do you want?”

  To be left alone, I didn't say. Wanted to. Didn't.

  “To do my job,” I said.

  “No, no, no.” Bilson made a sad little clucking noise, then shook his head. “Here, let me give you an example. My name is Russ Bilson, and I want to be the National Security Advisor.”

  I blinked my surprise. “Wait. You do?”

  Bilson shrugged, a hint of defensiveness to his posture. “Well...yes.”

  “But it's a government job,” I said, looking around his office, which was way nicer than anything I'd seen in government service. “You have this whole lobbying and consulting thing going on that's gotta pay way more than that.”

  “Definitely,” Bilson said. “But money's not everything. There's real utility to having access to the policymaking apparatus at that level. Long-term experience, insight that would make me better at this job after spending a few years learning.”

  I let out a sound that was somewhere between a cow's bleat and a gag. “I'm not gonna lie, Washington, to me, looks a lot like a bunch of insiders switching seats on their way up the pyramid. There's a lot of gladhanding going on. It's an incestuous company town, where everyone's just slowly making their way up toward the top as best they can. Everybody at the top knows each other, they're all patting each other on the back–”

  “Or stabbing each other in the back,” Bilson said darkly. “There's stabbing, too. Trust me.”

  “It just feels very...” I made a face, then mimed the heebie-jeebie motion of shakes.

  “I don't think it's that bad,” Bilson said. “It's power, and access to power. There's a game element to it. There's a fair amount of networking going on. But that's life in any society. It's how we organize ourselves, right? There's always a ladder, and always someone above you, until you get to President Gondry's position.”

  “Maybe it's because I've been kicked down the ladder a few times,” I said, “but I don't like people having power over me. And I don't particularly like exercising mine on others, which is why I generally reserve it for when they've done bad things.”

  “Well,” Bilson said, his smile drawing tightly across his face, “I suppose it's a matter of perspec–”

  “What did Bridget know?” I asked, the idea just hitting me like a stray lightning bolt.

  Bilson took a moment for his brain to shift gears. “Uh...what?”

  “What did she know?” I asked. “What motivated China to put a sonic device in her apartment?”

  All the emotion left Bilson's face. “I don't think we can lay this at China's feet. We have no idea where that device came from, and making accusations like that given the dearth of evidence–”

  “I'm not going on the news and shouting, 'China is hurting our diplomats!' while wearing a sandwich board,” I said. “I'm investigating, and part of that means coming up with a working theory that you try and prove as you go. I realize the evidence is thin, and as soon as some starts to show up to contradict my theory, I'm fine with abandoning it. But for now, it looks to me like China has sent in agents to kidnap at least one, possibly more American citizens, and that they've planted at least one sonic device in a State Department employee's home.”

  “That could have been someone else,” Bilson said with growing annoyance.

  “Yeah, but probably not, given that these aren't commercially available products,” I said. “Someone researched and built this, they didn't buy it at the local Walmart. Money was put behind its development. Ergo, a state actor is probably behind it, because they've got money, time and interest. Thus, China. But leave that aside for a second – what's the motive for rendering Bridget a barely-coherent radish?”

  “I don't know,” Bilson said, looking like he was about a second from interrupting me to argue again.

  “Nor do I,” I said, pulling out my phone, “but I want to find out.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “I cannot just get you a meeting with SecState Ngo,” Chalke said over the fuzzing phone, “she's a cabinet level officer.”

  Bilson just looked at me coolly. He'd predicted this would be the response. He also hadn't offered to set up such a meeting himself, which told me either he didn't have the juice or was seriously uncurious about what Bridget might have known that resulted in her incapacitation by, presumably, the Chinese government.

  “I know she's a busy lady,” I said, “but I need to talk to someone at State about this employee. There was a device in her apartment that was causing her brain damage.”

  Chalke was quiet for a moment. “Was it a television?”

  I ignored her facile attempt at a joke. “It was a dedicated sonic device designed to cause long-term brain damage.”

  Chalke went dormant again; I wondered if she was edging toward exploding at me.

  But she didn't. “I might be able to get you a call back from her, but not right now. Later today, at best.”

  “That's perfect,” I said. “Just give her my number and the employee's name. I don't even need to talk to her, necessarily, just someone who's known Bridget for a while and is aware of her work history.”

  Chalke made a noncommittal grunt, then asked, “Anything else?”

  “Just waiting on a heap of forensic evidence,” I said.

  “Is she playing nice, Russ?” Chalke asked.

  “So far she's fine,” Bilson said, seeming to let go of the 2 by 4 I'd planted up his ass with my refusal to let go of accusing China of being involved in this. “I'll keep you in the loop.”

  “Sounds good,” Chalke said, and hung up.

  “You guys sound chummy,” I observed, but Bilson turned away. Interesting.

  “You need to keep any accusations about China to yourself,” Bilson said, circling back around his desk, all business. “You understand?”

  I debated being old Sienna and throwing some retort at him. I swallowed my pride instead. “I'm just pursuing possibilities. I'll keep it all to myself, if you want. I won't mention it again, in fact, unless some new evidence comes to light.”

  His face softened. “I don't mean to suggest you can't say it around me. I just don't want this theory of yours to go public. China, as a country...well, saving face is very important to them. It's cultural. So any accusation of this kind, especially from a leading light in American law enforcement, well...it could have implications.”

  “What kind of implications?”

  “Bad ones,” Bilson said. “Economic. Diplomatic. Military, even.”

  “I'll keep my theories to myself, then,” I said, smiling tightly. “Hey, I should probably get out of your hair. I need to check in at the office anyway.”

  Bilson nodded, seemingly pulled toward his desk like an object trapped in a gravity well. “I do have a few things I need to catch up on myself,” he said distractedly. He snapped his eyes up at me. “Let me know if you get any leads?”

  “Will do,” I said, edging toward the door. “You'll be the first to know.”

  And out I went, off to pursue a lead I wanted Bilson to know absolutely nothing about.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. It was a nondescript rental car parked just down the street from my special FBI office. A slate gray sedan, only a year or two old, with Colorado plates. I spotted it from the end of the street, where I had my Uber driver drop me.

  Sneaking down a street in broad daylight is a bad idea, so I just walked casually, consciously keeping myself out of the arc of the sedan's rearview mirrors. This involved walking on the opposite side of the street until I was about twenty yards from the car, then crossing the road in the driver's blind spot.

  And there was a dri
ver. I could see her dark hair through the window, a little heat distortion at the car's tailpipe, the engine humming quietly as it idled. Based on the humidity collecting at the base of my spine (boy, did my back love to sweat in the DC summer), I thought keeping the car running was a pretty smart move.

  I crept the last few yards and knocked on the window, causing the driver to freak the eff out beautifully. She tossed her phone as her whole body seized up in surprise. She jerked her head around and looked right at me, pure terror pasted on her face.

  Whoooooooops.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said, looking into the face of a black-haired woman I'd never seen before. From the side and back, she looked like Michelle Cheong. The hairstyle was exact. “I thought you were someone else,” I mouthed as she flipped me the bird then bent to fish for her phone.

  “That's some mighty fine policing you're doing there,” someone called from just down the street. I turned my head to find Michelle chuckling at me from a little alcove built into the building across the street from my office. “What's next, harassing kids drawing on the sidewalk with chalk for defacement?”

  “Ha ha,” I said, crossing the street back toward her. “I was looking for you, you know.”

  Michelle's eyes were alight with amusement. “Oh, I know. Which is what makes it even funnier. You tried to get the drop on me and made an ass of yourself.” She looked to the skies. “This is such a gift, really.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, slipping across the quiet sidewalk to stand next to her in the alcove. It was a function of the building's design; Roman columns extending out from the facade left a space that was perfect for someone to stand in, sheltered from the wind. Not that you'd want to be sheltered from the wind on a day like that, but it also perfectly protected her from observation at either end of the street, yet she could slip up and look in either direction any time she wanted. A nice little hidey-hole, and it was almost exactly across from my office. “You're like that cat that always lands on her feet. So?”

  Michelle was smiling, but it faded the closer I got. “So.” She lapsed into silence.