What Happened to Lori
Page 19
“Your words mean nothing to me.”
“You’re just standing there, staring. Either give me my hand back, or go.”
“Which hand? This hand?”
The Watcher waves.
“You’re a monster.”
“I am God.” The Watcher smiles. “I do not care how I am judged.”
But, secretly, The Watcher believes otherwise.
No organic, living being can be God.
God is immortal, omnipresent, all powerful…
…and currently locked in a cage.
PRESLEY ○ August 25 ○ 10:13am
Finally. A break in routine.
Presley had no idea where Fabler wanted to take her, but it gave her the opportunity to wear some of Lori’s clothes. Nicer clothes than any she’d ever owned. She picked a white Jill Jill Stuart jumpsuit and cream Christian Louboutin ankle boots that were roomy enough to accommodate the DoubleTap. After weeks of wearing sweats and t-shirts, the outfit felt delightfully girlish. Presley required jewelry, and full make-up, to complete the look, but settled for a bit of orange lip gloss, and a rhinestone scrunchie to keep her hair back.
When she met Fabler in the living room, he stood near the front door, using his Pocket Fisherman to cast a lure into a coffee mug from eight meters away. After hitting his target he glanced over at her, and his eyes went buggy.
“You okay?” She realized her error the moment the words left her mouth.
“You… uh… you look… like my wife.”
“Do you want me to change?”
“What? Uh, no. It’s… it’s fine. Let’s go.”
“I should probably change.”
“It’s okay.” His expression relaxed. “You look… nice.”
Fabler meticulously put his Pocket Fisherman into his backpack
For the nth time since taking this job, Presley wondered why she continued to stay.
Hopefully, for a little longer.
They pulled into the parking lot of an army surplus store. When Presley got out of the Jeep, she caught Fabler staring, then quickly looking away.
He held the door open for her, and Presley walked in.
Odors stayed with you, and this shop smelled like Basic Training; boot rubber and oiled brass and musty canvas.
The sense of familiarity mixed with an overwhelming feeling of dread, and as Presley processed that while keeping an eye on Fabler to her left, someone came at her from the right.
On reflex, Presley moved to bring up both arms as they were pinned to her sides in a bear hug. She lifted her knee, to drive a boot heel through her attacker’s foot, when he bellowed.
“Lori, it’s so great to see you back.”
As Presley realized it was mistaken identity, not a threat, Fabler pulled the beaming guy off of her. “Hardigan—”
“I knew it, Fabler. I knew you were innocent.”
“—this isn’t Lori.”
Hardigan’s smile dimmed a few hundred watts. “It’s not?”
“It’s a friend of mine.”
Presley noted that Fabler made no attempt to introduce her, so she stuck her hand out. “Marna. Marna Presley. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hardigan.”
Hardigan had ten years on Fabler and enough grey stubble on his chin to sand the splinters off a two-by-four. He gave Presley’s hand a quick, firm shake, his face showing surprise.
“Apologies, Ms. Presley. I would have sworn… my mistake. Jamal should be here shortly.”
Presley didn’t ask who Jamal was.
Fabler folded his arms over his chest. “Has he shown you?”
Hardigan nodded. “He sent pics.”
“And?”
Hardigan shrugged. “They look like what you drew. Did you and Ms. Presley get some WW in Siberia? Is that the reason for the color?”
Fabler shook his head. “If they were for snow, they’d be insulated.”
Presley knew WW stood for Wet Work. Old merc slang. Taking soldier of fortune jobs where people bled and died.
Grim told her, off-handedly, that after the army, he and Fabler did some military contract work.
A black guy entered the store, older, looking worn out, lugging two leather suitcases. He nodded at Hardigan and Fabler, then did a double-take when he saw Presley.
She anticipated his comment. “I’m not Lori.”
“Who’s Lori?”
“Didn’t mean to stare. Pretty ladies don’t come in here often, and I spent two weeks shut up in my house, stitching and gluing fabric that fights hard not to be stitched or glued. You ever try to punch a sewing needle through aramid fiber?”
Presley shook her head. But she knew aramids; synthetic compounds used to make body armor, like Kevlar.
“Name’s Jamal. Fabler mention me?”
Presley glanced at Fabler. “He doesn’t mention much.”
“Talk is cheap, and talk is priceless. It can get you laid, and it can get you killed.” He looked at Fabler and wiggled a suitcase. “Did I make this one for her?”
Fabler nodded.
“Well, then… let’s see if it fits.”
The suitcases contained…
Presley gawked. “Is that full body armor?”
“From neck to the boots.” Jamal appeared pleased, like a proud parent.
“It’s very… white.”
Jamal cast a look at Fabler. “Apparently the color is called eggshell. You folks want to try them on?”
Fabler stripped off his shirt, showing off an eight pack and more definition than a dictionary. Presley looked around for a place to change.
“We have a ladies’ room in back.” Hardigan jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Presley took the suitcase to a tiny, dirty bathroom containing little more than a stained toilet, a stained sink, and a doorknob she didn’t want to touch. It took a bit of balancing to take off her jumpsuit while standing up, and then she took out the first piece of armor and held it up for inspection. The body was split on the side, and featured Velcro closures. It went on like a clamshell, snugging her from neck to waist. Stiff material, with ceramic chest plates. The pants were one piece, similar to football pads, and Velcro extending over the waist. The sleeves had a similar feature, pulling on over the arms and attaching to the shoulders, the Kevlar overlapping so there was no gap in coverage.
Overall, easy to put on. Presley stared at herself in the stained mirror.
Goofy as hell. But she knew Fabler didn’t design this for the esthetics.
She sat on the toilet seat and slipped on the combat boots, the leather uppers wide enough for her to still wear the ankle holster with the DoubleTap.
Fabler had worked out every detail.
Presley walked back out into the shop. The suit, adding about twenty pounds and a lot of bulk, surprised her by allowing total freedom of movement. Fabler had similarly dressed, his omnipresent blank expression replaced by something that almost, but not quite, looked like excitement.
Hardigan appraised her. “Looking good.”
“I look like a Stormtrooper.”
“It’s armor. It’s meant to be functional, not pretty.”
Presley shrugged. “Now what?”
“Now we see if it works.” Fabler had his DoubleTap in hand.
Presley immediately spread her hands and took a step away. “Fabler…”
She was about to say don’t shoot me when Fabler surprised her by turning the .45 on himself and aiming at his belly, his thumb on the trigger.
The ceramic plate didn’t extend to the belly.
Fabler turned to Jamal. “This is IIIa?”
“Sure is. That a nine?”
“Forty-five.”
“It’ll stop penetration, but it’s gonna really—”
Fabler fired, the DoubleTap kicking in his hands, him immediately doubling over.
“—hurt.”
Or at least, that’s what Presley thought Jamal said; her ears were ringing and she couldn’t hear him.
Fabler straightened up, wincing deep. There didn’t seem to be any blood.
Then he inspected the armor. The weave caught the .45 round. Fabler had a neck knife hanging from paracord around his neck, and he pried the slug out, letting it drop to the floor. It had deformed into a mushroom shape.
He smiled, which looked like a grimace. “Nice.”
Jamal showed his teeth, part smile, part grimace. “I admire your faith in my work.”
Fabler clapped Jamal on the shoulder. “It would have been bad if it didn’t stop the shot.”
“For you, or for me?”
Fabler didn’t answer. His pained face had reverted back to its perpetual blank, mannequin expression.
“How about the helmets?”
“Zippered section, in front.”
Fabler flipped the suitcase over, unzipped, and took out—
It was longer than what goalies wore, extending six inches above the forehead, and coming to a point another six inches below the chin. Like a Zulu war mask. There were large holes for the eyes, and a circle of smaller holes over the mouth.
Presley glanced at Fabler, hoping for the punchline to this bizarre joke. But he ignored her, gazing at the helmet with a strange, almost reverent look.
“This is… perfect.”
“I don’t understand why you wanted it to be so large.” Jamal’s face scrunched up. “It restricts movement.”
“Remember you asked me about camouflage?”
Jamal nodded.
Fabler put the helmet on, adjusting the chin strap. When he spoke again, his words had a crisp echo. “One type of camouflage makes things hard to see, because they blend in. The other disguises things, so they look like other things.”
Presley couldn’t see his mouth through the mask. But she sensed that Fabler was smiling.
After removing the headpiece, Fabler tore at the Velcro on the side of his vest, dug into the side of the pants, and pulled out a stack of bills. He peeled off hundreds, one after the other, and the brick didn’t get any smaller.
Presley knew he had money from the false arrest settlement. But she assumed Fabler kept it in the bank. Where could he have been hiding that much cash in the house? Presley thought she’d searched everywhere.
Presley shrugged off the thought, knowing that she could justify the means with the ends.
After dropping what had to be over ten thousand bucks, Fabler put the rest of the money away. Then he shook the hands of both men and picked up the suitcases, heading for the door.
Presley spread out her hands, palms up. “We’re not changing?”
“We’ll drive in these. Be a good test to see how comfortable they are for extended use.”
GRIM ○ 11:29am
Grim drove around Wichita. He was searching.
Searching for a job.
Searching for motivation to fire Presley.
Searching for inspiration to get on with his life.
Searching for…
“A liquor store.”
He pulled into the Wine Depot and parked.
He beelined for the whiskey, saw a bottle of Jack Daniel’s winking at him, and picked that fella up. Also, since he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in a while, Grim grabbed a large bag of fried pork rinds. For the protein.
He brought his items up to the scowling Indian cashier, and pulled out the cash he had left after getting gas.
“Your money is no good here, Officer Pilgrim.”
He squinted at the woman’s nametag. Avni. Oddly familiar. Grim wondered if he should wait around, to listen to her gloat about refusing him service because he arrested her for something, or leave and find some whiskey elsewhere.
“You don’t remember me.”
He sighed. Grim wanted to believe in karma, wanted it so badly, and that meant taking his lumps when he deserved them. “What did I do? Give you a speeding ticket? Arrest you for drunk and disorderly? Catch you smoking weed?”
“You saved my life.”
“Six years ago. My husband was hitting me. I called the police. You came.”
A light came on in Grim’s brain, and he recalled the arrest. His rookie year on the job, and they’d gotten a domestic dispute call. Hearing screams from inside the residence, Grim and his partner kicked in the front door and discovered Avni, bloody and hysterical, being beaten by the man who’d sworn to love and protect her.
Grim had bounced his nightstick off the husband’s head to subdue him. Maybe more than once.
“Just doing my job.”
“It was more than that. I was new to this country. I knew nothing. You helped me get an order of protection. You took me to a shelter for abused women. You testified against my husband at the trial. And you warned him, while you were on the stand, that if you ever saw him near me again, there would be no place in Kansas he would be able to hide from you.”
“I said that?”
“The defense attorney tried to object, but he was overruled. I’ll never forget that moment. My husband went to prison for two years. I divorced him. With the settlement money, I bought this store. I have a new husband now, a kind man, and two beautiful children. All because you helped me.”
“So when you’re saying my money is no good here…”
She smiled. “I’m saying the drinks are on me, Officer Pilgrim. The drinks, and the snacks.”
He decided to fess up. “I’m not a cop anymore.”
“That doesn’t
matter. You protect people. You’re a good man. That isn’t about a badge. It’s about what’s in here.”
She placed a hand on her chest, patting her heart.
Grim seriously considered the thought.
“Thank you, Avni.”
He turned to leave.
“Officer Pilgrim. You forgot your whiskey.”
But Grim had tuned her out. He focused on his phone, on the words he’d typed.
YOU’RE FIRED.
Without any hesitation at all, Grim sent the text to Presley.
PRESLEY ○ 11:35am
The suit felt pretty good. Some pinching near the neck, which Presley fixed by adjusting the Velcro straps. The bottoms also detached in back while she sat, and the heavy stomach panel dug into the top of her thighs. She managed to push, tuck, pull, and shift, both the uniform and her body, until things stayed put and the armor became bearable, if not comfortable.
“Will you be able to run in it?”
“I think so.”
“Jump? Climb?” He glanced at her. “Shoot?”
She didn’t appreciate the way Fabler said shoot. Downplaying it, while at the same time telegraphing its importance.
“I think so.”
“How about with the backpack?”
“I guess I’ll know when I try it.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes while Presley considered how to phrase her question.
“You know, Fabler, it would help if I knew what I was training for.”
“You’ll know. In time.”
“Obviously, it’s combat. Are we leaving the country?”
Fabler didn’t reply.
“I don’t have my passport with me.”
“You aren’t going to need a passport.”
“So… what is it? Are we invading Missouri? Robbing a bank?”
He snorted. “I don’t need money.”
“What is it you need?”
“I need you to follow orders. Because that’s what I pay you to do.”
“Just another mushroom, huh?”
“We’re all mushrooms, Presley.”
Army lingo. A mushroom is kept in the dark and fed shit. No matter your rank, you were always a mushroom.