State of the Onion

by Julie Hyzy

  “Two minutes ago you swore it had to be.”

  I dropped my head into my hands. “I’m confused.”

  A long moment passed, both of us quiet.

  Tom broke the silence. “For what it’s worth, Ollie, I’m confused, too.”

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything more.

  “I guess I should get going,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  I still waited. He finally said, “You going to be okay?”

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  I watched him drive away before I started my car.

  Some fun day off.

  CHAPTER 22

  FOR THE SECOND TIME IN LESS THAN A WEEK, I was awakened by pounding at my door before the sun was up.

  “Hang on,” I called as I navigated through my dark apartment. What time was it? I squinted at the digital readout on my stove as I scurried past the kitchen. Three in the morning. The door cracked again. Sounded like someone banging against it with a stick.

  It had to be Tom. Who else could it be at this hour?

  I peered out the peephole.

  Mrs. Wentworth had her cane in the air, ready to bring it down against my door again. Before she could, I swung it open.

  “Mrs. Wentworth,” I said with alarm. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Damn foolish question. Could I be standing here in the middle of the night talking to you if I weren’t? Let me in.”

  When an elderly neighbor lady says “Let me in,” you let her in.

  I turned on a hallway lamp and ushered her into the living room, thanking heaven that the place was clean. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Let me sit, first.”

  “Can I get you something?” I asked, thinking how ludicrous the question felt at three in the morning with both of us wearing nightclothes. But I didn’t know what else to say.

  Mrs. Wentworth was tiny in a formerly tall sort of way. She stooped as she toddled over to my leather sofa. Giving it a glance of distaste, she changed trajectory and headed into the kitchen. “Hard chairs are easier to get out of. I’ll have tea, if you got it. No caffeine.”

  The bright overhead light gave the kitchen a surreal glow. I filled two mugs with water, placed them in the microwave, and sat. Mrs. Wentworth had hung her cane over the back of her chair and folded her gnarled hands atop the table.

  “Don’t you use a teapot?” she asked.

  I bit my tongue. I normally would use a teapot, but I’d opted for the microwave in the hopes of moving this impromptu visit along a little faster.

  “Would you like anything else?” I asked. “Cookies?” What I really wanted to know was why she was here at this crazy hour, but she seemed in no hurry, content to study my kitchen’s décor.

  “You make the cookies from scratch?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have some.”

  She took one of my Crisp Triple Chocolate Chip cookies but didn’t eat it. Instead she finally turned her shrewd stare in my direction. “Don’t you want to know what I saw?”

  What I wanted was to go back to bed. But I was raised to be polite. And now that I was awake, I sure as hell did want to know what was so important that had her banging on my door in the middle of the night. “What did you see, Mrs. Wentworth?”

  She took a mouthful of cookie, and then took her sweet time chewing. “You did a nice job decorating the place. How come you don’t have a boyfriend here?”

  Taken aback, I stammered. Then lied. “He’s working.”

  She nodded. Finished the cookie.

  “I didn’t think he was here. That’s why I chased the guy away. Knew you didn’t have anyone here to protect you except me.”

  “Chased? What guy?”

  She jerked a thumb toward my door. “He was trying to get in here.”

  I stood. “Tonight?”

  “Just now. I chased him away.”

  I opened my mouth, but the microwave dinged, cutting off further comment. I used the distraction of steeping tea to gather my thoughts before asking, “Why don’t you tell me what happened—from the beginning?”

  Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes sparkled. She clawed another cookie from the plate. “I heard the stairway door open,” she said. “You know nobody here ever uses the stairs.”

  She waited for me to nod before continuing.

  “I happened to be near the door, so I peeked out the peephole.”

  “You happened to be near the door?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice even as I placed the steaming mug in front of her. “It’s three in the morning. Why weren’t you in bed?”

  She fixed me with that intelligent gaze again. “I’ll be sleeping permanently one of these days, you know. I don’t plan to waste my time doing it now.”

  With no idea how to respond to that, I took a sip of too-hot, pale tea.

  “And you should be grateful I haven’t keeled over yet. The guy I saw creeping around here was up to no good.”

  “Who was it?”

  “How should I know?” she asked with asperity. “He was trying to break into your door, not mine. Maybe it’s someone you know.”

  Suddenly weak at the knees, I sat. After today’s encounter at the range, I felt vulnerable. Mrs. Wentworth’s pronouncement fed into my newfound paranoia.

  Determined to keep a firm grip on logic, I said, “Couldn’t it have been James? Or one of the other doormen? Or maybe one of the custodians?”

  “Would James be picking your lock?”

  I gasped. “You’re sure?”

  “Honey, I may not be fast on my feet, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyes.”

  I stood. “I’ll call nine-one-one.”

  “Already done.”

  As if on cue, my buzzer rang, making me jump. “Yes,” I said, pressing the intercom.

  James tried to sound official, but his voice came through tinny. “Police here for you, Ms. Paras. Is there a problem?”

  Mrs. Wentworth eyed me over the top of her tea mug.

  “I need to report something, yes,” I said. “You can let them come up.”

  “Should I come up there, too?” James asked.

  “You better keep an eye on the door,” I said to him. Mrs. Wentworth nodded her agreement. “By the way, James, was there anyone down there looking for me a little while ago?”

  “You mean that one Secret Service guy? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”

  “No, someone else. Anyone else.”

  “No, Ms. Paras. No one’s come through the door since before eleven. That’s when I locked up. Anybody’d have to ring the doorbell after that.”

  “Thanks, James.”

  When the police arrived, Mrs. Wentworth gave them a surprisingly detailed description of the would-be intruder.

  “Short,” she said. “No taller than five-three, I’d say. He had a clean-shaven head, dark skin.”

  Two officers stood in my tiny kitchen. One male, one female. Both in their late twenties. Both buff but looking wide at the hips with all the equipment they wore. The female officer, Duffy, sat next to Mrs. Wentworth and took notes. “Black?” she asked.

  Mrs. Wentworth shook her head, clearly enjoying the attention. “No, more like tan. Like somebody who lives at the beach.”

  At my sudden intake of breath, they all turned.

  “You recognize this individual?” Rogers, the other officer, asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “No…well…maybe.”

  Twin stares of annoyance from the two cops. I could practically read their minds. They were thinking this was simply a case of boyfriend troubles—that I knew who the intruder was, but was trying to protect him.

  Hurrying to dispel that thought, I explained. “Today…er, well, I guess I mean yesterday…a guy followed me. That’s what he looked like. He was tan. Very tan, like he sprayed it on or something. Except the guy at the range had dark hair.”

  The annoyed looks were replaced by quick concern. “He followed you home?” Duffy a
sked.

  “No.” I went on to tell them about my experience at the shooting range.

  Rogers asked, “Do you have a gun on the premises?”

  “I do. He made me so nervous that I brought it home with me.”

  “You have a permit?”

  “Yes,” I said, “of course.”

  “May I see it?”

  “The gun or the permit?”

  “Both.”

  I wanted them to jump up and set off to find the guy who’d been at my door—to figure out how he’d gotten up here without James being aware of it—but instead I found myself questioned and my gun examined. They seemed impressed by the fact that I worked at the White House.

  “What about the guy?” I asked, as they pronounced everything in order and admonished me to keep practicing.

  Duffy said, “We’ll talk with the doorman, run prints on your door—don’t touch your outer doorknob until we—”

  “He was wearing gloves,” Mrs. Wentworth said around a mouthful of cookie.

  The officers’ eyebrows raised as though impressed. Duffy turned to Mrs. Wentworth. “Is there anything else you can think of that could help us identify the guy?”

  She thought about it for a long moment, and I could see her replaying the scene at my door in her mind. “Yes,” she said slowly, stringing the word out. “When I opened the door and yelled at him, he said something. Shouted it, in fact. Like I scared him.”

  We all leaned forward.

  “I did frighten him, you know. I said that I’d already called nine-one-one.”

  “What did he say?” Rogers asked.

  Mrs. Wentworth shook her head. “It was another language. I couldn’t understand the words, but I most certainly understood the meaning. That’s when he took off down the stairs.”

  And downstairs, James hadn’t noticed anything amiss. How did the guy get out? How had he gotten in?

  My building’s lack of a security staff had never bothered me before. Now, goose bumps raced up the back of my neck.

  Before they left, the officers inspected my locks and told me they were as good as I could get. Rogers said, “No signs of tampering…But if somebody really wants in…”

  I must have blanched because he quickly added, “If you hear anything suspicious, call nine-one-one.”

  I thanked them, thanked Mrs. Wentworth.

  She grabbed a handful of cookies and tottered back to her apartment, leaving me alone, unable to sleep, knowing that nightmares awaited me whether or not I closed my eyes.

  CHAPTER 23

  I DEBATED CALLING TOM. DECIDED AGAINST IT.

  Our last conversation had left me feeling foolish. As though I’d manufactured the incident at the range as an excuse to see him. He had promised to report my sighting, but I’d gotten the distinct impression that he didn’t really believe it was the Chameleon who’d approached me. Now, after last night’s unpleasant happening, I wondered if my cover was totally blown. Did the Chameleon know who I was and where I lived?

  It scared me. More than I cared to admit.

  What would Tom say? Warn me to be more careful? Tell me to sleep with my gun under my pillow?

  Would he come racing to my rescue to protect me from the Chameleon?

  No.

  I slid my Metro pass through the gate’s reader on my way out at McPherson Square, shuffling with the crowd toward the exit—keeping alert for anything, anyone—out of place.

  I needed to get used to the fact that Tom wasn’t there for me anymore.

  The thought depressed me. But I couldn’t let the weight of disappointment slow me down. Reminding myself that a fast-moving target is a whole lot harder to hit than a static one, I practically shot from the station’s maw to the White House’s Northeast gate. I should tell someone here about the attempted break-in. But who? Tom told me that my involvement—from the very start when I whacked the pan against Naveen’s head—to the incident at the merry-go-round, was considered confidential. I didn’t know who, beyond Tom, Craig Sanderson, and unknown higher-ups were in on it.

  By the time the White House front lawn came into view, I’d worked up a sweat, and my breaths came fast and shallow as I slid my ID through the card reader.

  Freddie wasn’t in the booth this morning to answer the shrill beep. “Hi, Gloria,” I said as the woman came out of her building to double-check it was me.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  Now that I was inside the gate, I felt enormously better. With Secret Service at every turn, and snipers atop the roof, I knew I was safe from the Chameleon here, at least.

  “I’m fine,” I said, as I tucked my pass away and wiped my dotted brow. “Warm today, huh?”

  “Supposed to be midseventies this afternoon.”

  She gave me a funny look as I walked, more sedately now, to the East entrance.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I ASKED HENRY when I got into the kitchen. “You’re supposed to be off today.”

  He turned from his hunched position at the computer. “Change of plan,” he said, his face making the transformation from furrowed-brow to bright. “You and I are going on a field trip. I thought about calling you last night, but I knew you’d be in early anyway…” He glanced up at the clock, “but this is really early, even for you.”

  I donned my tunic. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  The kitchen was quiet for a long moment as Henry returned to his document. He hadn’t turned on many lights, and I took a deep breath—the scent of disinfectant over the lingering smells of yeast and garlic—and was comforted by the closeness of it all. This was my haven. I could happily live here. I pictured the adjacent storage area, and wondered how easily I could convert it to a sleeping space until I felt safe in my apartment again.

  I smiled at the absurdity of the plan. Not a chance I’d escape the Secret Service’s notice. For one thing, my pass would alert them that I hadn’t left for days. And showering each morning might prove problematic.

  Still, a girl could dream.

  “What’s so funny?” Henry asked.

  I wanted to tell him about my early morning visitor, about the range, but I couldn’t start down that path without betraying confidential information. Or compromising the plan to keep me safe. Oh, yeah, that plan was working.

  “Nothing, really,” I said. “What kind of field trip?”

  He hoisted himself off the stool, and clapped his hands. “We are going to Camp David.”

  “Today?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, brushing past me to pull out his stash of favorite recipes. “On a helicopter.”

  Henry looked and sounded like a little kid who’d just been promised a pony ride. I couldn’t help grinning—his excitement was contagious.

  “What time?”

  “They’ll call for us after nine. We’re in charge of dinner there tonight. The Camp David kitchen staff is already preparing some basics, and getting ready for our arrival. But! The president specifically requested our presence.” He graced me with a look that said “Impressive, huh?” and then went back to rummaging through his file. “This trade agreement summit must be pretty important to insist that you and I oversee the meals. This time there is a real possibility for cooperation. The president realizes that, and he is doing all he can to make it a reality.”

  “I’d say. These two countries have been at war with one another for…” I blew out a breath. “…for as long as I can remember. If President Campbell is able to facilitate a trade agreement, it’ll be an important first step toward achieving peace in the Middle East.”

  “Here.” Henry handed me three recipes, having tuned me out in favor of planning meals. “Let’s figure out what we need to make these.”

  WE WERE SHEPHERDED TO THE HELICOPTER just after nine, leaving Marcel in charge of the kitchen during our absence.

  The presidential helicopter, Marine One, had already shuttled President Campbell and his guests to Camp David. The rest of the delegations attending the summit would arrive eithe
r by separate air arrangements or chauffeured motorcade.

  The helicopter taking the two of us to Camp David was one of the ordinary, run-of-the mill designs. The Secret Service fellow who led us toward it seemed to view it as no big deal.

  I found it incredibly exciting.

  An earphone-wearing man in a flight jacket held up a gloved hand, motioning us to wait outside the marked perimeter while the enormous blades whirled overhead, their movement making loud whup-whup noises in the otherwise quiet morning. I held my arm up to shield my face from dust zipping into my eyes.

  “Henry! Ollie!”

  We turned. Craig Sanderson trotted toward us, papers in hand, his short hair flipping up from the copter’s air current. “Did we forget something?” I asked Henry, shouting to be heard.

  “No. I have everything here.” He patted his laptop case.

  Craig wasn’t out of breath, but he had to raise his voice over the sound of the rotating blades. “This has just been released,” he said, handing a flapping paper to Henry, and another to me. The look he gave me was anything but friendly, and as soon as I saw the face on the picture, I knew why.

  Henry leaned in, firmly holding the paper by both ends. “Who is this?”

  Craig explained that the White House, and indeed all of Washington, D.C., was on high alert for the assassin known as the Chameleon. He pointed to the face I’d described to Darren Sorrell, the face that stared up at us now. “This is the most recent composite we could come up with. We’re notifying everyone at Camp David. This guy’s slippery, and we want him caught.”

  “I’ve heard of this Chameleon,” Henry said, nodding. “Someone has actually seen him?”

  I felt myself blush.

  Craig nodded, without looking at me. “We think so. Just keep a close eye out, all right? We believe he’s targeted President Campbell. That’s why these trade negotiations were moved. It will be more difficult for the Chameleon to attempt an attack in the new location; Camp David is much less problematic to secure than the White House—but until we tell you otherwise, anyone who looks like this, or who behaves in a suspicious manner, should be reported immediately.”