by Will Mosley
Heather ran her fingers through her hair. “Yeah.” She said. Her tone mellowed. “Yeah, the 'dead' possibility did come up. And if so, we're chasing ghosts.”
“Exactly my point.”
“You think Kimble would tell you? Maybe you could bring it up over lunch or something. It would save us a hell of a lot of time.”
Phil laughed and sat on the bed beside Heather. His hand, seemingly uncontrolled, reached up and longingly stroked her hair, not wanting to stop. Heather didn't reject it, nor did she move away. Instead, she leaned into his firm palm.
“Too late for that.” She said, grinning. “You got married.”
“Yeah.” He groaned. Then, looked at her with a dim smile. “I did, didn't I?”
“Yes. And she's a sweet woman who likes to keep a nice home and two beautiful boys. Not some floozy who trapes around the world and lives in tight quarters with strange men.”
“She didn't mean it like that, Heady.” Phil pleaded.
“I know. But what do you expect her to say after she met me? 'Oh she's such a lovely woman. Sure, Philip, go anywhere you want with her! I trust you!'” Heather mocked Candace Kirby.
Phil coyly smiled to himself, surely thinking of how things might have turned out if Heather, instead, were Mrs. Philip Kirby.
“Phil, now that you know what I'm doing, I will ask you and your men to keep your distance. I haven't been home in more than a month and I would really like to sleep in my own bed for once. I'll give you a trash bag full of used Tampons and old boxes of Chinese food if you need to keep up appearances.”
“That's disgusting, Heady!”
She laughed. “I figured that would keep you off my scent for at least a week.”
“It's working.” A cold shiver ran down his spine thinking of the used Tampons. “Anything that bleeds –,”
“Heard it, PK. A million times already. Hell, anything that stands on its hind legs to piss and doesn't live in the wild can't be civilized!”
“Touché. I want to remain in the loop, Heady. And none of this will get back to WhiteWash. But I'm going to need those files back. You know that, right?”
“Sure. I'll tell Luke to copy them and we'll get them to you in the morning. You can tell Kimble that the hard drive had a bad sector and Luke needed to replace it immediately.”
Phil stared glumly. “Is that – is that actually an issue with a hard drive? I don't want to look like a fool.”
“Yes it is. A bad sector can erase numerous files instantly and you'd never know unless you check those files daily. Plus, this is a way Luke can stay with the company. I'll call him and let him know that plans have changed.”
“That geek will shit-a-brick!” Phil grinned.
“I know. It'll keep him on his toes, though.”
For several moments the both sat silently staring at the floor; Heather, with a look of expectancy, Phil with concern furrowing his brow.
“You do know the risks involved if you were to actually find these guys alive, right?”
“Of course.” She said.
“Do you have anyone you can call?”
She cut her eyes away from him for a moment, then returned them. “I know a few out-of-work S.E.A.L.S I can contact.”
“How many?”
“Five. A few Rangers, too.”
“Shit.” Phil turned his face to floor, his hands clasped, as some stark revelation suddenly struck him. “I remember when all this started, the S.E.A.L.S were considered to the best of the best. But tangling with these guys, I'm not so sure they are anymore.”
“But when you are given nearly unlimited funds to experiment, this is what can be created. Besides, if you're a talking about the breadth of human endurance and stamina, the S.E.A.L.S are the best. They are the best human soldier available. And,” Heather rolled her eyes. “They were not subjected to what... we... put those guys through.”
“It's weird – and scary. If you do find them – alive – and you do contact them, and your S.E.A.L friends can't handle them, who can you call?”
Heather thought for a moment, then said, “The Cops!” with a smile.
“Seriously, Heady. They'll keep coming! The CIA could probably wrangle them, but we can't contact them with this. I'm not trying to be Benny Bad News, I'm just trying to think about this from all angles.”
“Well, let me work on finding them, first. Then we'll worry about assets.”
Phil firmly grabbed Heather's arm. “I want to be there when, and if, you talk to them. I've got resources. I don't want you going this alone.”
“But I've got Lucus.”
Phil winced at the thought of Lucus's pale and frail body being mangled by one of their guys.
Moments after Phil left the room, Heather called a taxi service, unhooked the computer monitor, and left the building.
Just after 2pm, Heather arrived at home. The tan and brick split level was not her house, but the home that Kathy and Heath had purchased soon after Heath returned from Vietnam. Since it felt like home, wasn't in her name and would soon be hers anyway, she always kept a key. Upon entering, the insipid rank of warm garbage wafted through the house, mounds of clothing sat atop an old laundry hamper in the middle of the kitchen and, the television was still on. Heather pulled the neck of her dress up as far over her nose as was possible and quietly stalked the house, creeping through each room searching for vermin or an unwanted intruder capitalizing on a vacant home. Several weak boards amongst the hardwood floors creaked. Not only had she memorized which boards creaked, how much applied pressure caused them to creak and the exact amount of pressure would oscillate the sound, she made a game of it as a child; walking through the darkened hallway at night and intentionally stepping on an array of living room boards, making it sound as if an intruder had broken in. After thoroughly examining the rooms, including her old room with raggedly built shelves she'd constructed to house her Barbie collection, and the closets and bathrooms, Heather changed into one of her mother's T-shirts and sweat pants and began cleaning.
The initial object of the cleaning was to make the home suitable for brief occupancy. No doubt she'd find another position in her field, if not maneuvering herself and her experience into a career in politics – that is, if she didn't find the members of Project Trojan. Fresh foods were to be tossed and eventually replaced with stale, but long-lasting canned goods because she'd need a place to return to between assignments if Academi or MVM – or, God willing, the CIA – came calling. And if she did decide to run for a City Council seat, or maybe even Congress, her constituents would be comforted in the knowledge that, she's not just working for them, but she's a member of the community as well – even though that would not be the case.
By six o'clock in the evening, vibrant life sprouted throughout the neighborhood as latchkey children walked the streets and parents drove sun-sprinkled new cars into their driveways. With a glaze of sweat spritzed across her forehead, cheeks and arms, Heather had heaved the last of seven bags of garbage to the street. Until now, she had waited to collect the mail since most of it would likely be trash. A second later she realized that she was right as the small compartment was completely full of mailbox stuffer's and large, official looking envelopes warning that action was immediately required, yet bold black text easily seen through the thin paper offered advanced loans with 'reasonable' 23.95% interest rates. Heather sifted through the mail, only because something important might lay within the hand held landfill. She tore a small hole in one of the trash bags and packed all the mail into it.
As she closed the mailbox, she felt strange eyes peering at her from several of the homes. She turned completely around and directly across the street from her childhood home, a young brunette woman choose the impolite approach and continued to stare at Heather even after she pushed her daughter down the driveway on a bicycle. Heather huffed, politely smiled and tossed her hand up at the woman. Immediately, a welcoming smile easily seen from across the street slid across the woman's face.
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br /> “Hi, ya!” She said. Heather nodded, turned and walked back toward the house. To her left, an older man stood beside his porch. When Heather lifted her hand to wave at him, he dropped his head and shuffled the grass with his foot. From behind her, she heard heavy breathing as if she were being chased. Out of instinct, her muscles tensed and her hand reached to the waist band of the sweat pants, touching the butt of her Glock.
“Hi, ya! How are ya?” The voice was closer, louder, annoying.
Heather dropped her shirt to conceal the weapon and turned around. The brunette stood only feet away and lifted her hand when she saw Heather's face.
“I'm Jean Grimes.” Her nasal Wisconsin accent was thick and new to the area with no trace of southern in it.
“Hi, Jean Grimes. I'm,” Heather? Should I be handing out my name so frivolously? Heather thought briefly. But if I am to stay here, she may find out sooner than later. “Heather. Heather Luzader.” The women shook hands.
“Well, welcome to the neighborhood, Heather Luzader!” Jean was probably thirty-one because only fine, hair-like lines, touched the corners of her eyes – not yet crow’s feet, and she had brilliant white teeth that were too large for her face and thin lips that stretched into pink ribbons when she smiled.
“Thanks, but –,”
“This house has been empty since before we moved in, according to the neighbors,” Jean's eyes became fixed on the house to the right of the Luzader home for several moments as she spoke. “But the neighborhood is quiet... relatively quiet. Petey and Sarah seem to enjoy it, anyway.” Jean looked at her hands. “Sorry I didn't bring any cookies or a pie or something. Isn't that what they use to do?” Heather politely smiled and shrugged. “Times sure have changed. Neighbors don't talk to one another like they used to, you need someone keeping an eye on your place when you're away, you know?”
“Sure.”
“Exactly, Heather Luzader! You know what I'm talking about. How's about dinner sometime? We can introduce our families to one another, the kids can play, the men can talk bad about us.”
“Don't trouble yourself, Jean. I don't –,”
“Oh, it's no trouble, dear. When can I expect you and... the mister,” Jean looked around Heather as if she expected someone to materialize. “Tonight, maybe?”
“Thanks, Jean. But no. I've got a bunch of cleaning to do. I – I'll just have to take a rain check on dinner.”
Jean's eyes flicked over to Heather's neighbor, then back to Heather. “You sure, dear? There's always plenty left over.”
“I'm sure.” Heather turned, trying to avoid the one way conversation.
“Alrighty then. You're welcome over our house anytime, okay?” Jean's question seemed like a plea.
Heather nodded, waved and immediately realized she'd left the 'mister' question unanswered, which would give jovial Jean a second reason to pry.
Once the trash was on the street, the second load of clothes was washed, now drying, and the rooms were clean, Heather thought momentarily about cutting the grass. Earlier, when she'd run into Jean, she noticed that the grass was high, but that it would've been unruly if not for someone's generosity at least two weeks ago. She'd have to get it cut soon because now, a curious neighbor with a lawn mower and time, would be eager to garner future favors from her – probably the coy old man next door.
She ran a hot tub of water, undressed and sat down. Almost immediately her muscles and tendons- coiled like vigilant vipers- unwound and loosened themselves from her thin bones. Her phone rang in a distant room. Came in, sat keys down, purse on living room couch... phone on the coffee table! Crap! She didn't want to press Luke any harder than necessary about the contents of the hard drive, and though she didn't call him, instead filling her evening with chores to avoid the temptation, she had to know what he had found.
Reactivating her muscles, she leapt from the tub, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around herself – spilling water as she maneuvered – and dashed to the living room. She quickly dabbed her hands on the towel and answered the phone on the third ring. A fourth would have sent the call to her voicemail.
“You got anything?” She asked excitedly.
“Oh, hey!” Lucus, startled. “Well, we're still working.” Heather's body went slightly limp. “I just called to let you know that we got here safely. Thanks for calling and checking on us, Heady. That was so kind of you. Sometimes, you have such a warm disposition.”
“You're an asshole, you know that?”
“See what I mean? Putting the wellbeing of others before yourself. Truly remarkable!”
Heather glowered at the phone. “Spare me, Lucus. What have you found so far?”
“How did we manage to escape that security bush, you ask? Well after doctoring our battle scars for hours, I will say that it was not easy.”
“I'm hanging up if you can't tell me something!”
“Alright, already.” Lucus spoke away from the phone. “Hand me that paper, would'ya, Brian... Thanks.” Then back to Heather. “Ok. First off, I'm not going to prison for this shit, so after we finish copying this hard drive, I'm getting it back to WhiteWash.”
“Yes. That's what I talked to PK about. You'll still have your job – if you want it – when you return the hard drive. I told PK to tell Kimble that there was a bad sector on the current one and that you had to replace it immediately. So, plan on being there tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Lucus sounded surprised. “I did not know that.” He paused for a moment to gather himself before continuing. “Okay, where was I? Here we go. I thought that they had another company monitoring their affairs, that they had secondary system backing up their information?”
“And you found out they don't, right?”
“Right! Me and Gary Dobson are the sum total of the IT department for Whitewash! Everything is on here, Heady! Every operative Whitewash has in the field, former operatives, former soldiers, contracts, government funding of Trojan, Tophat and Plymouth! It's all here! I never bothered to look into this stuff.”
“You never had a reason until now, Lucus.”
“True. So far, no info on those guys. We've looked at all the employment records of everyone who ever worked there, hoping that you were wrong and... nothing.”
“Thank you for the update, Lucus. I'm going to go finish my bath so call me if you find that information.” Lucus was silent.
“Hello? Did I lose you?” Heather asked, checking the connection signal on her phone.
“Uh, sure. No, no. I'm here. Uh... Heady?” Lucus's voice seemed shaky.
“What?”
“Umm, about this bath you mentioned. The Roman's use to have bath houses in which one could relax and have a nice conversation. Perhaps – perhaps I could come over and we could, you know, just hang out in the bathtub and have some conversation. Maybe? Totally professional, you know.”
“Totally. Bye, Luke.” Heather hung up the phone and went back to her bath.
Soon after she finished bathing and drying off, the doorbell rang. She quickly dusted off moisture, put on panties, a t-shirt and shorts, and answered it. A tall man with a full midsection and a full face, wearing black slacks and a baby blue polo, immediately greeted her.
“Hello, Heather! I'm Tommy Grimes, How are you this evening?”
Grimes. The lady across the street. Heather thought and looked behind the man. He moved and looked back with her. “Yes. That is where I live.” There was a great deal of the lazy, Georgia drawl in his voice.
“Mr. Grimes. I'm fine. I met your wife this afternoon.” She shook the man's hand and his fingers reached past her wrist. “She's a very interesting woman.”
“Yes. Yes she is. She's a stranger to no one, I can assure you. I'm sorry if she harassed you in any way.” Heather waved it off. “Listen, she mentioned that she offered you dinner this evening. If you're not busy, we'd love to have you over.”
“Thank you, Tommy, but I'm fine. Really.”
Tommy moved his large head into the door way, braci
ng one hand on the threshold, and sniffed twice. Only weeks ago, this sort of intrusion would have assured him a broken jaw. “You going out for dinner? I don't smell anything.”
“Uh, well... I thought maybe I'd –,”
“There's nothing around here that can touch Jean's cooking. I promise you that.” Not once did his grin devolve. However, it was honest. Tommy took a step off the porch and reached back for her hand. “Come on. Let's go see what she's cooking up.”
“Tommy, seriously. I've got – I'm going to pick up,”
“What?” He demanded gently. “McDonalds? Burger King? When was the last time you had a home cooked meal? We need to put some meat on those bones.”
He was so officiously polite, so commandingly calm, that Heather felt obliged to answer him. There was no anger or nonsense in his voice, either. If he'd been a fitter man, she would have already slammed the door in his face, reasoning that his forwardness was no more than a front to eventually bed her. “Tommy, I'm not even dressed for –,”
“Get dressed and I'll be across the street. Unless, you want me to walk you over, which is fine by me. You want me to do that?”
“No, Tommy, I think I can manage.” She was hooked and he knew it. He wasted no time rushing down the two small stairs and wobbling down the driveway.
“I'll see you in a few. We won't start without you!” The comment was added, Heather knew, to put the guilt of his family going without on her shoulders. She didn't know what this technique was called, but she'd used it during field operations when a soldier began having second thoughts about his orders. “What? You're going to sit here while your brothers-in-arms fight for you?”, She remembered. All in all, she had been played by a person in the only other occupation whose recruitment demands exceeded that of private military outfits': a minister.
In a white Tahari Kayla dress, wrapped with the same black Glock concealing belt as she wore earlier, Heather arrived at the Grimes home and rang the doorbell. The curtains shuffled in a living room window, and soon after Jean screamed, “She's here!” The latches rattled against the door for a moment and then it flung open. Jean's large toothed smile was accompanied by out stretched arms. “Hi ya, Neighbor!” She said.