Baker's Dozen

by Amey Zeigler

  “Just a confession. Some closure for the poor family of Herr Doktor Professor Mertz.” Christiaan only met the tall, dark-headed professor once as a child. Christiaan’s mother had made the professor dampfnudeln, a pale poached bread from his hometown of Kandel. How Herr Doktor got his email and connected with Christiaan during a troubled time, he’d never know. “Why did you do it?”

  “I’m an American. I have my rights.”

  Christiaan placed his face within inches of Tyrone’s face. “You threw out those rights when you crossed an ocean to kill.”

  Tyrone struggled some more.

  “Perhaps I should come back later.”

  “No,” Tyrone yelped.

  Christiaan leaned over the table. “Why did you do it? Did you want to scrap it because it was a terrible failure and couldn’t afford the losses? Were you worried about lawsuits? Worried you couldn’t sell your technology you’d dumped millions into?”

  Tyrone’s eyes hardened, squinting into small pits, his voice sounding rough like pebbles at the bottom of a lake. “You have no idea, do you?”

  Christiaan stepped back, involuntarily. Even in a room protected by cameras, guns, and his own hands, Tyrone’s words had influence and power.

  He smiled causally. “I’ll come back in one hour.”

  Christiaan left letting the door’s automatic locks shut behind him. Heaving a sigh, he let his head rest against the wall. Sabrina exited her viewing room. They strolled down the hall together.

  Christiaan grew tired of his games. “Give him some awful food. Maybe some tap water and canned meat on stale crackers. He’s got to crack sometime.”

  Sabrina cast a sideways glance at him. “Telling him about the gasses was clever. Too bad it’s a lie.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to Tyrone’s holding cell. “I wish he would go crazy.” Christiaan wanted Tyrone dead. For Andy’s sake. But OverSight didn’t want him dead. They wanted a confession.

  Sabrina’s glittering green eyes probed him. “You like the American girl, don’t you?”

  Christiaan shrugged and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “Your feelings are all over your face, Christiaan. I am not stupid. You have been depressed since she said goodbye.”

  He glanced up, feeling all his strength ebbing. Finally, he nodded.

  “Then you should tell her the truth.”

  “I’ll never see her again.”

  “More’s the pity.” Sabrina stared at him for a few heartbeats, then swiveled and left him in the hall.

  Andy. He thought about texting her, but decided against it. He closed his eyes. He remembered her eyes, full of anger. She’d never forgive him now. How he treasured the tender words spoken in those last few hours of being in the desert together. Surely she didn’t mean them, did she? He’d hurt her too much. Or was it all an act? His lips twitched in a smile. She lied as much as he did.

  Four hours later, he interrogated Tyrone again. His food laid untouched, even though his bands had been loosened enough to eat.

  “What’s the matter? Food does not appeal to you?”

  “This is inhumane treatment. Where’s the UN? This is torture as defined under the Geneva Convention.”

  Christiaan just raised his eyebrows. He was cracking. And they didn’t even need crazy gas.

  “No one could eat this mess.” He toppled the plate with his knee. “If I starve, powerful people will avenge my death.”

  Christian only sighed. “Powerful people who would murder Herr Doktor Professor Mertz?”

  He glanced around, searching for gas. “You don’t know who you are dealing with,” he sputtered again.

  Tyrone’s puss-filled eyes made even battled-hardened Christiaan, who had seen visceral parts litter the ground, nearly lose his lunch. “Why don’t you tell me then?”

  Tyrone focused his bloodshot eyes, directly on Christiaan’s. “You think this is all about money. Ha! Money, if used correctly, can buy you power.” Tyrone’s puffy bagel face flamed with rage. “But money can be taken away. True power is giving the people what they want.”

  Even while pretending not to, Christiaan listened hard. He didn’t take one word coming from his lips, puffy and pink though they be, for granted. This man blustered like a raving lunatic.

  “There are people far more powerful than me. Men who have far more to lose than I do.”

  Christiaan raised his head. No, he wasn’t confessing. He was tattling. Andy was in danger.

  ****

  Hazel Tyrone wore grief like a mink fur. Her pallor gave her blazing gaze power. Pain gave rise to a fire of revenge. In a sleek, black pantsuit, she stood at the head of her father’s table, surrounded by men her father used for advantageous purposes. She had never ordered a hit on anyone. Bobby always did it. But she knew how.

  She would never be Mrs. Sharp. And Bobby would never inherit her father’s empire. In fact, she hadn’t seen her father in days. And in his business, missing bosses only meant one thing. He would want her to continue on. She trembled as she stood there, searching the challenging faces of her father’s most loyal men.

  “Who put you in charge?” Her eyes shot to the man who spoke. It was Rodgers. One of Tyrone’s more higher-ups.

  Hazel gave him a confident stare-down. “Father being kidnapped can only mean one thing. With his lawyers, I perused the paperwork and have discovered my father left the family business to me.” It was a lie, of course. It was meant to go to Bobby, but she had the lawyers on her side. They didn’t want Rodgers to take the reins. He was full of bloodlust.

  Rodgers scoffed.

  “I am in charge, and you will listen to me.” Her knees knocked against one another, and she was glad the great table covered it up. “I’m searching for this man,” she said, her blood red lips trembling. Her hair was soft and blond. This was personal. “Bobby Sharp’s killer.” On the screen was the security feed from her father’s personal penthouse where Christiaan had used Bobby as a body shield. Christiaan and Andy’s faces were the size of throw pillows. “Shoot to kill.”

  “And the girl?” Rogers asked.

  “She’s of no consequence to me. Kill her as well.”

  “They are both trained.”

  “Are you afraid?” she asked, staring at him without flinching.

  Rodgers leaned back. “You are asking us to risk something for you. You, who are merely a girl.”

  Hazel mustered her courage and stood straighter. Her voice loud and commanding. “I am Hazel Tyrone, and I am in charge.”

  Her declaration silenced the men, and they glanced around at each other.

  “We’ll need men.” Rodgers had been in the penthouse the night of her engagement party. “I’ve seen these two in action. I know what they can do.”

  “Then gather up as many men as you need. I want his heart so I can bleed it out myself.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Andy called Carla in the morning from the hotel phone. OverSight had paid her a chunk of cash for her help. She’d be getting a new social and a new name. But the money sickened her. Money purchased with her heart and tears. The envelope on the nightstand disgusted her. Like blood money, only worse. She was just as bad as Christiaan. She could be bought.

  Carla picked up.

  “I need to talk to your dad,” Andy said. Andy figured if she told Mr. Vehemia about his son, he would stop production on the converters.

  “Daddy is in Boston, but he’ll be home in time for tonight’s soirée.”

  “Soirée?”

  “Senator Granger is hosting a fundraising event this weekend.”

  “Where?” Andy asked.

  “At the theatre, of course.”

  “How do I get in?”

  “The invite list is super exclusive. I’m not even invited.”

  Andy’s hopes dropped.

  Carla continued. “And security will be tight because Senator Granger is running for president. You should just text my dad.”

  “I need to talk
to him in person.” Andy couldn’t predict his reaction. Perhaps he’d be angry. Or grateful. Or Mr. Vehemia might resist her recommendation to halt production. She might have to go straight to Senator Granger to change the law.

  “If I know you, Andy, you’re already thinking of a way to get in.”

  Andy smiled. Carla knew her so well. Parties were hard to control. People crashed all the time, friends of bartenders, musicians, or lighting crew. It was just a matter of finding out who was supposed to be there.

  “Who is catering?” Andy asked. She needed a name, clothes, and a new body.

  ****

  Lights flooded the lobby of the Granger Theatre, shining through its expansive glass doors. Ribbons of red, white, and blue decorated the columns as the formally dressed visitors swept up the stairways and into the warmth of culinary spices. In the corner, a string quartet played patriotic songs.

  Too nervous to pay attention to the music or smell the food, Andy jumped at the sound of champagne corks popping at the populated open bar. Latex prosthetics covered her face, giving her a double chin and thicker cheeks, and she worried she might startle herself right out of it.

  Andy spent hours enhancing herself. She grew several sizes since noon. After she found out which caterer would be serving the event, she executed her plan. Applying for a job just in time to help for the biggest night of the caterer’s life.

  She trembled as she placed appetizers on a gilt plate with an inflated hand. Mini cheesecakes and chocolate covered strawberries with nonpareils sprinkled on top. Though the fat suit restricted her movements, she spent the last six hours in the kitchen preparing for the shindig, and her feet were killing her. The suit weighed a ton.

  And she decided she hated food.

  At least she vowed to never become a caterer. It was no longer like food; it was consumable art. What was even more disgusting, no one noticed the details, the equidistant bites on white plates, the crystal, the silver. They just sipped and nibbled at the little tidbits.

  Andy’s stomach growled. Weakened by the burden of carrying her extra bulky body, Andy found everything tempting. Even the beluga caviar, scooped on thin, crisp toast with mother of pearl spoons smelled tasty.

  Andy glanced up from her duties at the table, refreshing the buffet, scanning the room for Mr. Vehemia just as the guests left the lobby, leaving cocktails on napkins, food uneaten, to migrate toward the theatre where the program commenced.

  Once everyone settled, the speeches began. With so much alcohol consumed, everything said was brilliant and worth clapping for. Andy waited and listened to the Senator’s speech from the corner of the room.

  “A toast to a cleaner, greener future,” he said at last holding up a champagne flute.

  “Here, here!” Hundreds of cries sounded, the flutes raised, and drinks guzzled. Andy bit her lip. This bill was extremely popular. Her empty stomach growled. Mr. Vehemia might resist. He would lose a lot of money if they stopped manufacturing the converter.

  Finally, before the program ended and the flood of people returned to the lobby, she hefted herself up to a table. She couldn’t think on an empty stomach.

  One little bite won’t hurt.

  As she munched on chocolate covered fruit and dry toast in a corner, she scanned the flow of people. Perhaps the Senator was the best person to talk to.

  She liked the Senator. Perhaps he read her column and praised Andrew Baker as a hero. Her gaze tracked him. Several men and women congratulated him, patting him on the back.

  With eyes glued to the crowd, Andy munched on a lettuce wrap with something akin to tuna salad in it, but way more expensive. No one would miss one. She moseyed back to the theatre.

  Alicia Reshad, in a stunning white gown, sang for the remaining audience. For some reason, perhaps the slow sultry tune, made Andy think about Christiaan. Maybe he didn’t go to Europe. Maybe he stayed to say goodbye, sneak up on her and scare her.

  Andy’s heart beat a little faster, scanning the crowd now with greater curiosity. Face after face flit by her gaze. No Christiaan. Nobody with his broad shoulders, marked grace, sandy blond hair.

  Andy’s heart fell. All day, as she shopped for supplies for tonight, she’d seen him everywhere. A man wearing a flight jacket on the metro, but was too short to be Christiaan. At the mall, cargo pants reminded her of him. Somebody tonight wore his cologne. After their last conversation, she needed to get him out of her mind. And her heart.

  Andy waited until the ceremonies and congratulations finished, the food cleaned up and stored, tables collapsed. The remaining crowd encircled the Senator, hands grasping his, clasping his back.

  Since she finished her catering duties, she ditched the black apron, and struggled up the flight of stairs leading to the back of the theatre. The fat suit considerably limited her range of motion.

  Crossing the green room, the smells jogged her memories. After years of performing there, memories tugged at her. She’d met Conner here.

  She paused by the unlit dressing room, wondering if she should take off the fat suit now or wait.

  Andy kept the suit on, better to keep it as long as possible. On stage, she peeked out of the curtains. A tight group holding Senator Granger’s attention huddled on stage as the light and sound crew packed up cords, stored mikes, and dropped the lights to darkness.

  She still hadn’t seen Carla’s dad. Maybe his flight was delayed. If she couldn’t talk to Mr. Vehemia, she would have to talk with the Senator. A crowd still surrounded him on stage.

  Andy waited behind a black curtain, breathing quietly. They continued talking. Andy couldn’t make out what they discussed. So she waited. Just as Andy’s heart rate had settled to a resting pace, and she was about to give up, someone spoke.

  “I’d been wanting to talk to you all night.” The male voice sounded familiar. “I don’t think we should force this through.”

  Carla’s dad.

  They crossed the stage in a cadence of footsteps. Andy was about to come out of her hiding place when the next man spoke.

  “You worry too much.” Senator Granger. She was pretty sure.

  Mr. Vehemia again. “I’ve seen firsthand what the converters can do.” Andy’s mind whirled, her heart wanted to jump out of her chest and make a run for it. “It must be an installation problem.”

  “Problem solved when we helped Tyrone. We made a law requiring only certain, properly trained businesses to install them. Tyrone gets his business, people are safe. Problem solved,” the Senator said, his voice low and soft.

  “But helping him doesn’t solve my problem,” Mr. Vehemia said. “My son is going to trial for something he’s not responsible for.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “If we just—”

  The Senator interrupted him. “What? Tell the world the catalyst causes violent behavior? Let the fear destroy all we’ve worked for? Would you sacrifice the group for the solution of the one?”

  “I don’t care. I want my son to be absolved.” Mr. Vehemia’s voice trembled. “He can’t go to prison. It was not his fault.”

  “ ‘At the altar of progress one makes many sacrifices.’ ” Granger remained calm. “This has gone too far, too much is at stake to create a PR nightmare now. The reaction never bothered you before your son became ill. Such a turncoat.”

  “You can’t take everything from me,” Mr. Vehemia shouted. “You won’t get away with it.”

  “Don’t threaten me.”

  “I’ll halt production,” Mr. Vehemia said. Then he slowed his words. “I’ll go to the press.”

  A blunt blow sounded, then a groan, and a body collapsed.

  “Take him away. Naturally, this was an accident,” said Senator Granger, hissing snakelike.

  Footfalls pattered on the wood floor. She caught sight of a pair of men in suits dragging a body out the door. The sound of the door slamming startled Andy.

  But what chilled her the most was what the Senator said next.

  “I’m sorry you
witnessed this whole display of unprofessionalism. But you can come out now.”

  Andy almost didn’t leave her secure spot.

  “I know someone is there. Your feet are peeking under the curtain.”

  Senator Granger stepped closer.

  Andy couldn’t run. Her suit was heavy on her. Being restrained left her few options.

  Shaking, Andy stepped from behind her curtain, waddling in her fat suit.

  Two suited men latched onto Andy from behind. She struggled to get free.

  Granger examined her closer, then pulled the latex. Andy’s face burned as he ripped the chin and cheeks free.

  “Amanda Miller. Why I am surprised you’re here.” A flash of fear splashed in his eyes. “You’re not Mr. Vehemia’s bodyguard, are you?” He chuckled, sweat glistening on his forehead. Unfolding a handkerchief, he dabbed forehead. “I’m really getting too old for this.”

  Andy’s gaze never left him, her throat dry, arms burning by the men’s grip.

  The Senator addressed Andy, pocketing his hanky. “Too bad we have not met under different circumstances. You’re quite attractive when you’re a little less of a woman.” He stroked her neckline, flashing his too-white smile. Andy stomach dropped.

  “We already know about you,” she said, glaring at him. “It’s all going to come out. You might as well give him what he wants. You don’t have to kill him.”

  The Senator shrugged. “He’s no longer a team player. He thinks more about his son than about the goal of the whole. I can’t have insubordination.”

  “People will get hurt.”

  “It’s not really bad, Amanda. I think you are seeing this all wrong. We are the good guys. We are saving the world.”

  “But the converter sends out poisonous gases.”

  “Only to individuals in certain rare cases. No one needs to know.”

  “But they do.” Andy couldn’t grasp why he couldn’t understand. “Now Scott is going to jail.”

  “Do you know how frustrating it is to find something so perfect only to have a few snags? Tyrone invested millions developing the technology. Vehemia spent millions manufacturing it. We can’t stop just because a few people get sick.”

  “But people should know it is at least a risk.”