Indigo Man

by M. J. Carlson

  “Exactly,” she whispered. “There was a time when it rubbed and chaffed, but now I feel naked without it.”

  He tried not to think of her naked. It didn’t work. The more he tried, the more it didn’t work.

  Her leg slid over his, nudging at the towel wrapped around his waist. The fabric of her trousers was smooth against his skin. “Zach?” Her whisper was little more than a soft breath on his skin.

  “Yeah.” She was messing with him now—had to be, he thought. As he considered the possibility, it irked him. At least it had the effect of getting his mind off her bra and the breast inside it pressing against his arm.

  “You asleep?” Her voice came out breathy and slurred.

  “I wish.” He did. More than he hoped she would ever know. Her leg moved against him. He cleared his throat and adjusted his position to accommodate his reaction and dragged his thoughts, kicking and screaming, away from the thin material separating them. “Sara, I, um, thank you for saving my life.”

  “Anytime.” She started quietly snoring into his shoulder. He moved a hand to her leg and slid it off his. As soon as he had, she shifted, giving him some much-needed breathing space. Her hand moved to his shoulder and he breathed a sigh of frustration and more than a little relief. Neither of them were in any condition for anything other than sleep.

  He stroked the smooth skin of her arm, and closed his eyes, just for a minute…

  ***

  Special Agent Johnson was doing his best to pace a rut in the suite’s deep-pile carpet. Three years to go until retirement, he thought. Three miserable years. A cushy assignment like this, closing in on the big two-zero, and now all hell had to break loose. Murphy and Newman stood at attention in Stiles’s penthouse. He secretly wanted to put his fist into Murphy’s face, might have if the Congressman weren’t running interference for the guy. Murphy was a cowboy—a clown. His file had more redacted text than declassified Area 51 information. Johnson had asked around on the down low, and Murphy was a lateral pass from OCIS—a spook. Not only was he in the Secret Service—his, Johnson’s Secret Service, but on his team. Except Murphy didn’t act like he was on Johnson’s team, he acted like it was Stiles’s team, and the team wasn’t big enough for two quarterbacks.

  Murphy would go, one way or another. Newman, too. Johnson would find a way to encourage both of them to explore other options in government service—by the end of the week if he had anything to say in the matter.

  Brown slouched in his usual chair. Stiles sat on the couch. Stiles. Stiles had requested Murphy by name. Now, he insisted on sitting in on a debriefing after a fiasco the media would delight in skywriting across the beach, because Stiles insisted it affected the campaign.

  He turned his attention to Murphy and Newman.

  “Why the hell you two were trailing him, is what I want to know.” Johnson stopped and stared at Murphy.

  “They were following Dr. Marshall on my orders,” Stiles said, his manner contrite.

  Johnson spun on Stiles. “Sir,” he said with enough bite on it to raise the politician’s eyebrows. Heat crept onto his cheeks. “I apologize for my tone, sir, but I asked Mr. Murphy a question, and I would like him to answer.” For non-department personal to attend a debriefing was unheard of. If they had the extra space, Johnson would’ve crushed this particular request at the outset. There was a reason Stiles wanted in on everything, and he, Johnson, was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable with the status quo. “Sir. It is highly irregular for a non-agency person to be allowed to sit in on these debriefings. Please try not to interrupt.”

  “Of course, sorry, Special Agent.”

  He returned to where Murphy and Newman stood.

  Murphy inclined his head toward Stiles. “His orders, sir. We were to tail Dr. Marshall and report his whereabouts.” He resumed his stiff stance.

  “Because of a suspected terrorist threat to Congressman Stiles?”

  Murphy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And that threat is what, exactly, Special Agent Murphy?”

  “We had reason to believe either Dr. Thomas or Dr. Marshall or both were planning to release falsified documents indicating a serious genetic abnormality.”

  “And this information came from where?”

  “Special Agent Goode’s preliminary report, sir.”

  “Where is she, by the way?” Stiles asked. “She kind of dresses the place up a little, if you know what I mean.”

  “Special Agent Goode has requested a few days off for a personal emergency.” Johnson took a slow, deep breath. His lips formed a thin line and addressed Murphy and Newman. “You two will go and get cleaned up and get some sleep. In the morning, you will return to the local police department and make a full report on tonight’s events. You will cooperate completely and answer all questions.” He crossed his arms over his chest. He nodded to the men. “Go home and get some rest. You,” he eyed Murphy, “are on duty tomorrow morning after your report. You’ll take the outer perimeter until further notice. There will be no more contact with anyone from GenTest until we determine what happened at Dr. Marshall’s home and laboratory tonight. Send in Hayes and Boone. Dismissed.”

  Newman followed as Murphy strode to the door and out.

  Hayes and Boone entered. Hayes’s upper lip had a sheen of perspiration, but Boone’s expression was flat as the wall.

  Johnson pointed to the computers and the specimen trays sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room. “Which one of you wants to tell me about this?”

  “Sir,” Hayes began, then seemed to run out of air.

  “Sir,” Boone took over. “Mr. Murphy directed us to confiscate the equipment in question from GenTest. He informed us he would discuss his reasons for the confiscation at morning report.”

  Johnson clenched his fists against his growing anger. “Are you following Mr. Murphy’s directions now, Special Agent Boone?”

  She shot Johnson a quick glance before facing forward. “No, sir. I mean, we thought it came from you, sir.”

  “Mr. Murphy didn’t tell you why you were to bring this equipment here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir,” Hayes added.

  “Dismissed.” Johnson said to them. “You’re on duty tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” they answered in unison and took a step back before turning and stepping out.

  Special Agent Johnson turned to Stiles and Brown. “Gentlemen.” He pointed to the conference table set up in the dining room. “We need to talk.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Sara’s arm lay across Zach’s chest as morning light filtered in through the window. The added weight left his chest feeling like his Mitsu was parked on it. His tongue felt like it was covered with carpet and his gummed-shut eyes refused to open against the sun. Trying to ignore the sensation of being watched, he slowly stretched his arms and legs awake.

  She stirred next to him and rolled onto her back. In a sleepy voice, she said, “Oh, good morning, Daddy. What are you doing here?”

  Zach tensed. Either her head injury was worse than he’d realized, or he was in deeper trouble than he thought. He held his breath, waiting to find out which. His body went taught as a fiddle string, when a deep male voice answered from the bedroom’s doorway.

  “I live here with your mother. Perhaps you and your friend can join us at the kitchen table when you’ve showered. Your hair looks like you washed it in blood. Are the Feds going in for ritual sacrifice now?”

  “Don’t start, Jack,” she said. Her voice took on a sharper edge, with an undertone of exasperation.

  He grunted. “You can stop pretending to be asleep, young man. You aren’t fooling anybody. Here, you’ll need these.”

  Zach’s legs jerked at what he assumed were his pants landing on them. “Yes, sir,” he said past the ache in his ribs, keeping his eyes closed.

  “Sara, is that rolling abattoir in the driveway yours?”

  “Sort of. Actually, it’s his.”

  “That�
��s what I thought. You left the transmitter key in it, so I moved it into the carport and covered it.” He dropped the fob onto the covers over Zach’s stomach.

  “Thank you, Jack,” she said.

  “I thought I told you about calling me by my first name, young lady. Where’s your weapon?”

  Sara pulled her hand from under her pillow and held the Glock up. “I thought you and Mom were on a cruise.”

  “That’s next week.”

  “Have fun.”

  The man grunted and left the room.

  Sara rolled onto her back and stretched. “You awake?”

  Without opening his eyes, he answered, “Oh, yeah, I’m awake.”

  “That was—”

  “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Military?”

  “Not since the Water Wars. Police. Detective. Retired,” she said.

  “What a great way to meet someone,” he responded. “Bruised and bloody, and in bed asleep with his daughter. And, oh, yeah.” His hand fumbled toward the cloth material across his legs, and he recognized his pants. They were warm and dry. “He’s a retired detective. How’s your head this morning?”

  “Hurts. How’s your chest?”

  “Hurts like hell, thanks for asking, but I’m thinking that’ll be the least of my worries in a few minutes. You figure he’ll arrest me, or just kill me and dump my body in the Gulf, tied to concrete blocks?”

  Sara laughed and winced. “His bark is worse than his bite.” She hesitated for a beat. “No, his bite is pretty bad, but he takes it all in stride. Should’ve seen his face when I told him I applied to the Secret Service.” She chuckled. “He looked like he’d swallowed a frog.”

  “Great. This is all he needs.”

  “You want the shower first?”

  “No. I’ll just lay here and pretend to be asleep, fooling no one, thanks.”

  Sara sat up, and plopped back, flat onto the bed, shaking the mattress and jarring Zach’s aching chest. Their matching groans started them both laughing, which led to more groans and left Zach panting for air past the stabbing sensation in his chest.

  After a moment she said, “I don’t know which is worse, the vertigo or the headache.”

  “I vote for rib pain as a write-in candidate.” The mention of the word candidate had them facing one another on the bed. “We are so in shit.”

  “Deeply and securely. But a shower comes first.” Sara groped her way to the foot of the bed and slid to her feet, holding her head with both hands. She stood without support for a moment, staring straight ahead.

  He watched her regain her balance and pull herself to her full height. She was lean and sinewy with just enough extra in the right places for his taste. He’d been right, she was a knockout under the suit. Her tawny brown hair with its blond highlights had fallen completely loose from its original knot on top of her head. It cascaded over and past her shoulders, half way down her back. Even disheveled and blood-matted, it shone in the morning light.

  No, he thought, she shone in the morning light. He rubbed his fingers over his eyes, but the light through the window still bounced off her skin, creating an aura around her. “Wow,” was all he could say.

  “What?”

  “Tell you later. You need help to the bathroom?”

  “No.” She shook her head slowly. “Jack will flow with a lot, but a strange man helping his twenty-six-year-old daughter into the shower? That might be too much for his heart.” A half smile crept onto her face. “I’m good.”

  “Don’t get the glue wet,” he said when she’d made it as far as the door. “It’ll come off, and we’ll have to redo it.”

  “Then we’ll have to redo it,” she said, hand on the knob. “I can’t walk around with hair like this in the daylight. I look like I just stepped off a battlefield. It’ll scare children.”

  When she’d gone, he laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. “It scared the hell out of this grown man last night.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sara stepped back into the bedroom, still damp. A large, blue towel encircled her torso. Her hair was washed and brushed back. A small square of gauze taped to her forehead showed a streak of bright red. “All yours,” she said, her smile not quite hiding the pain.

  Zach tugged his trousers on as he winced his way up from where he sat on the bed. “Give me ten.”

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” Sara said, leaning over a little girl’s white, six-drawer dresser with gold trim. She pulled a pair of red thong panties from the top drawer. Noticing he was still standing at the door, she waved her fingers to hurry him along. “Go.”

  He nodded, and headed into the bathroom across the hall from Sara’s bedroom. A new toothbrush lay on a fresh towel on the countertop next to the sink.

  ***

  As he dried off, he checked his ribs in the mirror. A fist-sized bruise was forming on his right side over the tender spot. He flipped the towel over his neck, letting it hang over his chest.

  After taking the deepest breath he could manage, he opened the bathroom door, turned left, and walked toward the combination kitchen and dining area. Sara sat at the table, a heavy, white coffee cup in her hand. She wore a white oxford shirt and cutoff denim shorts that exposed more of her bare legs than they covered. A lot more, he noticed. She also wore glasses. The delicate gold frames surprised him.

  Next to her and facing Zach, a middle-aged man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair sat. A similar cup rested on the table in front of him. The man wore a tight-fitting tee shirt and loose jeans, and looked like he could bench press a corner of the house. He leaned back casually in his chair, lifted his cup, and sipped his coffee. One leg crossed the other at the knee.

  Unsure what to do next, Zach stopped at the end of the hall. On his left an open, comfortable living room held a wicker couch and matching love seat. A couple of matching end tables supported reading lamps. A decent-sized monitor screen hung on the wall behind him and to his left. On the far wall, a large picture window behind the couch looked out onto the small front yard and street beyond. The front door was near the corner of the room to his immediate left. He stood, waiting for Sara’s father to acknowledge his presence.

  The man gestured to the chair opposite him. “Dr. Marshall. Have a seat. We were just talking about you.” His deep brown eyes looked like they carried the weight of having seen too much gone wrong in the world.

  Zach approached the table. Before he could pull a chair out, Sara’s father held a hand out, palm out. “Hold it.”

  Sara’s face tightened at the sound, the pain from her headache clear. “Jack.”

  Zach did as instructed. The man pushed his own chair back and stood.

  “Wait there,” he said, and left the room, skirting past Zach and heading toward the master bedroom.

  Zach stared at Sara, who smiled thinly at him.

  A moment later, Sara’s father returned with a soft, pastel blue shirt and held it out to Zach. “Trade.”

  Zach exchanged the towel for the shirt, the aching from his rib causing him to grimace as he shrugged into it.

  Sara’s father cocked his head. “Let me take a look at that.” He brushed the shirt aside and inspected the faint bruise on Zach’s side. “Somebody knock you down?” he asked.

  Zach shot a glance to Sara. “Twice,” he said, to the faint grunt from Sara as he buttoned the shirt.

  Sara’s father eyed them, then walked past Sara, tossed Zach’s towel onto the washing machine, and closed the door before returning to his seat. “I can hardly wait for that part of the story.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “And thank you, sir, for the shirt and your hospitality.”

  “Sit.” When Zach had, he continued, “You’re welcome for the shirt, but so far, that’s all I’ve given you.”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks just the same.” Zach scanned his surroundings. The wall behind Sara’s father held the door to the washroom. On Zach’s right was a
sliding glass door he’d missed the night before. It led out to a small, concrete patio. Behind him was a small, tidy kitchen, separated from the dining area by a counter.

  Sara’s father nodded. “I’m Detective Jack Goode, retired, and damned happy about it,” he said, without cracking a smile.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m…” He held out his hand, and laid it on the table in front of him when Sara’s father ignored the gesture.

  “I already know who you are. I just have to decide what to do with you, is all.”

  “Jack,” Sara’s voice carried a plaintive tone.

  He shot her a menacing glare over his index finger. “Okay, Dr. Marshall, from the top. Everything.” Goode dropped his finger at Sara’s eye roll and sipped from his cup.

  Twenty minutes later, when Zach had related the whole story, Detective Jack Goode, retired, and damn glad about it, sat back and stared at him through narrowed eyes. Without a word, Sara’s dad stood and lifted his coffee cup. “You want a refill, honey?”

  Sara handed him her cup, and he stepped into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Dr. Marshall?” he asked.

  Zach swallowed and licked his suddenly dry lips. “Yes, sir, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  He returned to the table, and placed Sara’s cup in front of her. He paused, running his fingers through her hair.

  She responded with closed eyes and a smile.

  After brushing the hair off her face, her father stepped back to the kitchen. “Do you take soy milk or sugar, Dr. Marshall?”

  “A little milk, please, sir, and please call me Zach.”

  Sara caught Zach’s eye and gave him a quick nod.

  A commotion in the washroom off the kitchen drew Zach’s attention. A couple of moments later, a woman bustled into the kitchen. Sara’s mother was almost as tall as Sara, with silver highlights instead of Sara’s gold in her light brown hair. The only lines marring her face were small laugh lines radiating from the edges of her eyes and dimples at the corners of her mouth.