Bullshit. He just wanted to annoy me. “He's the hacker that caused the network to crash if Watanabe isn't lying.”
“You mean you aren't sure? If I'd had my way, there would be no uncertainty.”
“You would have destroyed him. Richardson wants to keep him. He may be a blubbering imbecile,” I added, “But he's useful behind the keyboard. I can see why a waste like him might be considered valuable enough to keep alive…for the moment.”
Callaghan shook his head — but didn't argue; we both knew I was right.
The mousy woman returned a few minutes later with a sheet of paper. “Here,” she said breathlessly. “Everything I could find about Rubens Parker. As you asked.”
“Thanks.” A glossy eight-by-ten color photograph topped the stack. My target was the middle-aged man. His wife and daughter sat on either side of him like bookends. The wife appeared Filipino — or maybe Latino. So did the daughter. Hard to tell. I wasn't sure if this would be relevant or not, but I filed it away just the same.
Rubens Parker. I was sure he'd do anything I'd asked him to.
The wife, on the other hand, could be a problem. There was a fierceness in her expression, drawn in the lines around her cheeks and eyes. I'd have to find a way to get her out of the picture so she couldn't influence her husband.
Callaghan craned his neck to look over. “Oh look, fun for the entire family. And they've got a kid.” He smiled. “I love kids.”
I gave him a sharp look. “You stay out of this. You're backup.”
“Yes. I'll be right in back of you. Watching your every move.” The smile hardened. “Oh, I know about your understanding with Ricky Morelli and the others. Don't you know, Michael, that everyone is just as afraid of you as they are of me? They're glad to help you now, but if you fall…” His voice dropped to a whisper, “Unlike you, all they say about me is true. Deep down, you're soft…weak…and so very inferior to me.”
“I'm your superior officer, Callaghan,” I snapped. “This is insubordination.”
“Would you kill her?” Callaghan asked, running his finger down the image of the girl. “She is pretty, isn't she? And so young. Could you kill her for no reason, other than getting in your way? Could you hurt her? Could you do it with your own two hands? You might. But you would hesitate. And that, Michael, is the underlying difference between us. Because I wouldn't.”
“Get out.”
“I wouldn't,” he repeated. His mouth smiled but his eyes remained dead. Callaghan lied about many things but this wasn't one of them. “Don't get into pissing contests you can't win, Michael Boutilier. Especially not with me.”
“Get out and let me do the job that I was asked to do.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Well. Don't screw up, then.” For one brief instant, as his arm drew away, his hand closed around the back of my throat and squeezed — not hard enough to cause any pain, but there was power behind it. I whirled around, my hand on the butt of my gun, just in time to see his shirttails disappear around the corner.
Fuck.
Christina:
In pop science, there's this phenomenon called the butterfly effect. You know, that a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a hurricane on the other side of the world. Well, on the day that my life changed — forever — it all started with me not doing my Spanish homework.
It was stupid, careless — completely unlike me, in other words — not to have finished it the night before. I was responsible. On top of things. The kind of child parents were referring to when they told their own offspring, “You should be more like so-and-so.” I spoke Spanish fluently. It would have taken all of ten minutes.
But I hadn't done it.
I looked down at the text that had woken me up. It was from Renee. The message remained the same, taunting me: What did you get for number six on the Spanish homework?
Had the instructor even mentioned homework? He had spent the entire class period on Friday blathering on about the subjunctive and its uses. I remembered that much because I had been staring out the window at the empty soccer field, bored to tears, wishing futbol was in season because at least that would have given me something to focus on.
Havent done it yet. Maybe l8er.
The response was quick. What? You? Not doing your homework?
Please. If I was a good student, I wouldn't have teachers breathing down my neck, waiting for me to make a mistake. I was just…predictable.
Maybe too predictable.
I stared at the window and sighed. The icy light glazed the windows like a thin layer of frost, casting my room in a pale blue glow that turned the walls the most delicate shade of lavender. My room always looked best in the early mornings because the walls were baby pink — a color whose true hideousness was best revealed, like that of most horrors, in broad daylight.
I tried to complain about this, but most of my friends were unsympathetic; they couldn't understand why I was making a big deal over something as unimportant as the color of my walls. Sometimes, if they were feeling petty enough, they called me spoiled. My friends didn't get that it wasn't about the walls, not entirely. It was about what they represented — and that was my mother's determination to have control over every conceivable facet of my life. I called it my room, but that was just a formality. It was really my mother's room.
Oh, there were traces of my presence if you knew where to look. The books were mine — Don Quixote (in English), the Oz books, a signed collection of Julia Alvarez (in Spanish), The Phantom Tollbooth, and Harry Potter — as were the baseball pennants, and the collection of plush owls on the window seat. If you were really determined, you might find my trading card collection (hidden underneath my bed in three thick binders), some programming manuals (stolen from my father), my grandfather's chess set (missing a rook), and a couple of old game consoles from when I was a kid. My tomboy proclivities were otherwise banished from the household, as if my mother believed she could eradicate them by sweeping them beneath the pink rug. It wasn't my room she was trying to change. It was me.
I dressed quickly, avoiding the mirror. I'd pigged out on a bag of open chips someone had left on the counter last night and I could still feel the fat clinging to my thighs. I didn't want to see the evidence, as well. I hid the bag in my room because I was pretty sure that my mother snooped in the rubbish bin to spy on what I ate.
“Happy thoughts,” I muttered, grabbing my bag from my desk chair. It was a pretentious thing — the chair, I mean, not the bag; an early twentieth century dining chair that had been reupholstered and repainted. It was so uncomfortable, I kind of suspected that it wasn't meant to be sat on. In that sense, the Victorians and my mother had a lot in common: they both believed that furniture, as well as women, were better suited for display purposes only.
This was how deeply my mother had insinuated herself into my life. Like a serpent, her venomous criticism lingered long after she had departed. The bible says to honor thy mother and father but how many times can you turn the other cheek before you start feeling like a patsy? Why isn't it important to honor thy children, as well?
I found Mom in the kitchen. Her long black hair was pulled into her loose, trademarked chignon, secured with a jeweled clip. She was wearing a Chinese dress, real brocade, that made her skin glow. Wispy strands of hair fell into her face as she looked up from the sink, fixing on me the coal-black eyes that had made her the darling of the Dominican Republic in the 1970s, and my father fall madly in love with her.
With a surge of irritation, I resisted the urge to check my own hair. I wondered why she was so dressed up. Sometimes I suspected she did it to make me feel bad. “You're doing the dishes?”
“Rosalind is sick today.”
Rosa was the maid. The only reason my mother knew her name was because she had to write the checks out every month. “You know she doesn't like being called that.”
“Don't speak to me in that tone of voice, Christina Maria.”
I backed down and said, “But it's
true, mamá. It bothers her. It's what her ex-husband calls her.” My voice sounded whiny to my own ears; I couldn't imagine what my mother made of it.
She sighed. “What have I told you about talking to the maid, Christina? It's fine to be polite, if you must, but she's a bit coarse. I don't want her influencing you. And besides, you know perfectly well how much I abhor nicknames. Not only are they gauche, they trivialize your God-given name. Rosa is very cheap-sounding, don't you think?”
“No.” I knew a girl at school named Rosa. Her father owned a vineyard.
“Imagine,” my mother said, with a grimace, “If we called you Chris.”
I glared at her, opening the fridge. Why was she dragging me into this? “There are plenty of girls called Chris.”
“And they are also probably lesbians, darling, which I am sure you do not want to be.” The condescending smile slipped. “You're going to school in that, Christina?”
That was leggings, a blue knit dress, and flats I had bought on sale from Target for ten dollars. It was cold, so I'd put on a crocheted cap, which I'd secured in place with a couple of discreet bobby-pins. I thought it'd looked fine the other night when I'd laid it out. Standing here, in the pale, washed-out light of the kitchen, though, she made me feel hideous.
I set down the grapefruit I'd picked up. “There's no school on Fridays,” I said. “I don't understand. This outfit was in a fashion spread in one of my magazines.”
Annoyance flickered over her features at the comparison. When mamá was my age, she had been a model — good enough for the Dominican equivalent of Seventeen Magazine. Sometimes higher-end stores at the malls would hire her, too, for the glossy advertisements of their spring and fall sales. Now she was retired and designed clothes. We had the same eyes, the same cupid's bow mouth, the same dark hair. I was tall, too, and of swarthy complexion — just like her.
Strangers always said we looked alike but they were just being polite because that was were the similarities ended. Even in her forties, my mother was still far slimmer than I would ever be. She took my size — 5'11”, 16 in juniors — as my personal attempt to spite her through self-destructive behavior, for the same reasons that other girls my age pierced their tongues, consumed alcohol, and dated men like tattooed Swiss Army knives. “If you lost that weight, you could be a model,” she was always telling me. “You were so precious when you were younger. People were always telling me you looked like a porcelain doll. I called you my muñequita.” Then she would sigh and shake her head. “When I was your age, I was a size four. Four, darling. And I was considered one of the heavier girls.” She launched into this now.
I waited for the spiel to end, knowing that arguing would make things worse. I think she was mad at me because one of her friends had recently remarked that it was “a pity your daughter won't be able to wear your creations” with the same sort of sneering self-satisfaction women half her age had. The Lord also says love thy neighbor…but Mrs. Thompson lived all the way across town, so I didn't consider her my neighbor and felt free to loathe her at will. I couldn't imagine what my mother saw in her, or why she valued her opinion, but she did, and I was suffering all the more for it. When mamá finished bemoaning the embarrassment of my appearance, I said, “Why don't you just make your clothes bigger?”
This annoyed her, as I knew it would. “Because this is fashion. And with big models, you don't get to see the draping of the clothing to its full potential. All you see is the girl.”
“Adopt a mannequin, then,” I said icily.
“That's not the point. The point is, you've been gaining weight. Haven't you?”
I flushed. “No!”
“What have you been eating?” Her tone managed to achieve the perfect balance of sympathy, criticism, and moral superiority. In other words, she sounded like a preacher, which wasn't too far from the truth. My mother's religion was thinness; it was her false idol, her golden calf — and she was determined to convert me.
“What I eat is none of your business.” I could feel the heat creeping down my neck and knew I looked like the very portrait of guilt. I wondered if she had noticed the empty bag of Doritos beneath my bed, with the bright red foil that was almost as incriminating as the blush staining my cheeks. The thought of her snooping around my room made me even angrier.
“Of course it's my business,” her accent thickened, “I am your mother.”
“Legally, I'm an adult. I can do whatever I want.”
She let out her breath, all at once. It smudged her lipstick — something else for her to hold against me. “I just want you to be healthy. Is that such a terrible thing for a mother to want?”
What a joke, coming from a woman who worked for the fashion industry. Really. Starving yourself to fit into a size zero — why did that size even exist? Zero referred to the absence of something, but what did it mean in terms of a model's measurements? Her fat? Or her presence? How much could you cut away before the person herself vanished? It was hypocritical, that's what it was. I said as much, adding, “If you're so keen on me being healthy then you should have no problem accepting me for the way I am. That's what's healthy, Mom. Not being focused on all this freaky weight-loss stuff.”
“What do you want from me?” she demanded. “Permission to be as fat as you want? Fine. You have my permission” — with a dismissive wave, like Marie Antoinette asking the common people why they didn't just eat cake if they were out of bread — “Eat, then. Eat nothing but pizza and ice cream the whole time your father and I are gone this weekend. Will that make you happy, puerquita?”
Tears burned in my eyes. I picked up my bag and left the room before she could utter another scathing remark and before she could see me cry. Just before I slammed the door shut, hard enough to rattle the windows in their panes, I screamed, “I hate you!”
Mr. Next-door startled from watering his lawn and stared at me with an alarmed expression before retreating inside. A couple of dogs barked and howled back at the echo of my shout. I was humiliated. God, I hated this. I really did. Fighting with her. Each meal. Every day. It made me so sick, I wasn't even hungry anymore — so in that sense, I guess she won.
Chapter Two
Hunter
Michael:
Callaghan didn't make idle threats. While there was no immediate danger, I decided to make seeing Richardson my top priority; I needed to know what I had gotten myself into, taking on this assignment. Despite working here for the better part of a decade, he still didn't trust me. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was an attempt to put me in my place.
Well. I could play games, too. I took my sweet-ass time getting to his office. I bought a hot lunch from the canteen; submitted some paperwork I'd been saving for such an occasion; took a leak. When I arrived at the reception area, over two hours had passed. I was pleased; so pleased that I was able to mask my disappointment when his secretary informed me that he was “in a meeting” without even bothering to phone. This only served to confirm my suspicions that I was being screwed with. If he wasn't anticipating some form of misconduct, why was I being blacklisted? She smiled with too-white teeth. “Would you like me to take a message?”
“No. That's fine. I'll wait right here.”
She eyed me as I sat down in one of the stiff-backed chairs. Chairs that were designed, I imagined, with the intent of making such visits as brief as possible. She opened and closed a drawer, the same one, over and over. “I'm not sure when he'll be getting out. Mr. Richardson did say to cancel all his afternoon appointments.”
I bet he did. I also bet she had a gun in one of those drawers she kept fiddling with.
“I've got nothing but time.” I pulled out the files Hennessy had given me, raising them in a silent toast, and set toward memorizing the data. From the corner of my eye, I monitored the watch on my wrist. The time was 11:06. I wondered how long it would take Richardson to cave, or whether he would force me to call his bluff. The secretary was watching me when I looked up. I smiled at her. I was bet
ting it would take less than ten minutes. Maybe even five.
At 11:10 she said, proving me right, “Mr. Richardson will see you now.”
The door shut behind me as I walked into the room.
Richardson was sitting at his desk — a much more ostentatious model, made of handcrafted mahogany, and every bit as expensive as the black leather seat accompanying it. The desk was the focus of the room and intended to intimidate.
“Mr. Boutilier” — a signet ring on one sausage-like finger caught the light as he set aside some files I doubted he'd been reading — “Now this is a surprise, isn't it?”
I sank into the chair across from him. “Meeting get out early?”
He ceased toying with the ring. “Nothing gets past you, I see.”
“Your secretary didn't even bother to pick up the phone — or is she psychic?”
“I shall have to have a word with her about that, then, won't I?” He folded his hands in front of him. And not, I couldn't help noticing, answering my question. “What brings you to my office?”
“I think you know that already.”
His eyes flickered. “You give me too much credit, Mr. Boutilier. I may be many things, but I am not psychic — unlike my secretary, it seems.” He smiled. It disappeared when I didn't laugh. “No, I am afraid you will have to tell me what occasioned this visit.”
“You assigned Callaghan as my back-up on the Parker job. I want to know why.”
Richardson shook his head. “Mr. Callaghan is a very talented operative.”
I snorted. He gave me a sharp look.“Granted, he can be…shall we say, heavy-handed at times — ”
“Sadistic.”
“— but he always gets results. Something that cannot always be said for you, in spite of your finesse. I had hoped your respective strengths might compensate for your respective weaknesses.” My expression must have been dark. He smiled again. “Do you disagree?”
“You know the answer to that question, too.”
“I needed to assign someone who wouldn't be intimidated by you, Mr. Boutilier. Or your hubris. That is a short list. And of that list, even fewer are capable enough to meet my expectations. Mr. Callaghan was at the top of that list.”
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA) Page 2