by C. R. Asay
“Whoa! Hey, hey!” Arms tried to contain me. I fought them away but they persisted. “Hey, Rose, calm down. You’re okay. It’s okay. It was just a bad dream.”
Thurmond swam into focus. I stopped fighting and clenched my hands into fists, every muscle in my body aching and tense. Thurmond wrapped me in his arms. I trembled against his chest. He brushed his hands up and down my back and slowly I relaxed, breathing in the tang of his soap.
“Same dream?” Thurmond asked.
“No. Yeah,” I said.
I pushed away. I rubbed my eyes to block out his concerned face. We sat in the back seat of a large custom van parked on the street. I must have dozed off during the drive from the airport.
Thurmond didn’t ask more questions. I was grateful. I suspected he didn’t believe me but didn’t push the matter. The one that really bothered me was the bloody knife that replayed over and over, like the favorite movie of a sadist. Only it wasn’t a movie. And it wasn’t a dream. Caz made sure I knew that.
Thurmond was watching me. “Do you need a few minutes?”
“No, we’re still a go.” I checked the clock on the dashboard. Twenty minutes before the meet. No time for a conniption. Boderick sat in the passenger seat looking flustered. Thurmond had been driving and must have plowed past him to get to me when I’d started screaming.
“You and Bodie head out,” I said. “Just like we practiced. I’ll be right behind you.”
Thurmond squeezed my shoulder. “Copy that. See you in a bit.”
Boderick was out of the van before Thurmond could get the door open. Both doors slammed shut at the same time, and they walked away side by side. Thurmond leaned over to give Bodie last minute instructions, probably in regards to acting more human.
I scrubbed my hands up and down my face, trying to banish the images of the dream. I’d come to dread sleeping, staying up late and waking early, thanks to my nightmares. I even stopped taking the pain medication I still desperately needed, because it made me drowsy.
I’d taken some today, though. It was a choice between having a completely clear mind and a partially functioning body. Dr. Tolman and I agreed on a mild pain killer that would make me woozy, but not overly.
Opaque curls of fog rolled away from the rustic walkways of Cannery Row, reaching cool fingers back toward the ocean. The boardwalk was nearly empty this time of the morning with the occasional local walking a dog or hurrying to open their touristy Monterey, California shop.
I rubbed goose bumps from my arms, checked the clock again, and exited the van. I placed my hat on my head, and stepped off the curb. Thurmond stood across the road with his back to me, his face mirrored in the large display window of an herbalist’s shop. His eyes roved across the reflections, searching for anyone remotely suspicious.
We’d raided the racks of costume clothing on the set, and Thurmond looked good wearing the stylishly faded blue jeans and a high-necked, short-sleeved shirt. A black cap hid his awesome scar. The shirt in particular hugged his pecs enticingly, making him look for all the world like a magazine model.
I pushed a light pair of sunglasses onto my nose, trying not to feel irritated that my eyes were becoming less hazel every day. My hair was also much more silver than yesterday. I’d had someone braid it early this morning before the flight, and at the last minute stolen a black and white fedora from Xavier’s Winnebago.
I adjusted my sleeve over the bandage on my shoulder and held my arm close to my body to compensate for the lack of a sling. Dr. Tolman would never have consented, so I’d left it in the first garbage can I’d come to outside of the airport. My dark jeans and tight, cream shirt clung to my skin. That was Angie’s idea, saying something about how a garbage bag on a cute girl like me would only get me noticed. Someone should make Angie wear a cotton t-shirt and sweat pants so she knew what comfort felt like. At least I’d been able to pick my shoes, flatly refusing anything open-toed, heeled, or missing some other vital part. I’d ended up with some high-top gray trainers almost identical to a pair I’d worn in high school. Something I could run in, if it came to that.
Thurmond was a block behind me now. I crossed to the other side of the street, trying my best not to limp. I feigned interest in the window dressings of the shops while thumbing the zipper of my purse. I would have felt much more secure if I could have carried Xavier’s short-barreled .357 Magnum out in the open, or at least in a holster. A purse seemed like such a hurdle when you might need to shoot someone before they shot you.
A good ten minutes of walking put me in a shabbier area of Monterey. The sidewalk steepened, and my pace slowed. Weeds grew between the cracks in the sidewalks, and peeling paint now seemed a requirement for the majority of the buildings.
The little pub café I’d picked out came into view. It sported an old-fashioned hanging sign above the door proclaiming it “The Brewer’s Swill,” accompanied by a washed-out picture of what looked, oddly enough, like a chamber pot. They were open twenty-four hours a day and made fabulous eggs Benedict.
However, the reason I’d picked the place was for its slow yet steady local traffic, dim, private booths; and most importantly, two entrances with doors that always remained open, as well as a back exit through the kitchen.
I looked down a side street at a flash of movement. Boderick skirted around two older women before flattening himself against the wall of a shop. They stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. I snickered. I should’ve been concerned about him drawing attention, but he was like a naughty puppy you can’t bring yourself to scold for chewing your shoes. He’d been so determined to come along and blend with the humans that he’d even dyed his hair black like Xavier’s.
I made a slight motion with my head, and he melted into a doorway. The two women kept an eye on him over their shoulders before rounding a far corner. At least Thurmond was a natural; practically invisible to the growing pedestrian traffic.
My CI training only became second nature to me after months of practical field experience. Teaching two other people basic techniques, including one who was only partially familiar with the culture in the Third Dimension, was frustrating; especially since it was done mostly in the cushy confines of Xavier Coy’s private Gates Learjet 55 on the way to California. Xavier himself opted out of our scrappy mission, though he accompanied us to Monterey before giving us a bogus line about some ambiguous appointment.
I stopped next to the door of the café, scraped my finger across the peeling brown paint, and watched the reflection in the window for movement behind me. I caught sight of my own face.
Thurmond said I didn’t look that different. I had to disagree. The makeup Angie made me wear to cover the bruises altered my look to a significant degree, but it was more than that. My cheeks were sunken in from lack of food, and my skin had paled to a translucent white. Include the silvering of my hair and eyes and I looked faded, frail, and washed out. Alien.
I turned around and took a cigarette out of my purse. I didn’t smoke, but it gave me an excuse to stand outside the door until I could get a report from Thurmond.
My fingers trembled on the cigarette. I hoped the painkillers weren’t wearing off already. Dr. Tolman had been grumpy enough that I refused to stay in bed, and practically livid that I was planning to go gallivanting off on some mysterious mission. He was a good man.
I tapped the cigarette against my leg. Thurmond and Boderick passed each other without talking. Boderick touched the brim of his hat before strolling almost human-like across the road. Thurmond continued in my direction. He gave me only the briefest glance when he passed, adjusted his cap, and strode out of sight.
At the all-clear signal, I dropped the cigarette and crushed it with my foot. I didn’t remove my glasses or hat as I stepped into the café, giving a cheery wave to the older waitress heading my way.
“Hey, uh,” I read her nametag, “Linda. I hear you make a fantastic eggs Benedict.”
“Well I don’t make it, sweetie, but sure.
It’s the best.” Her voice croaked in a pleasant way, reminding me of my late Aunt Brenda.
Linda tried to sit me near the front window but, after a little prompting, showed me to a corner booth of my choosing. It gave me a view of the entire room as well as both entrances.
“Coffee too?”
“No, but I’d love a glass of orange juice.”
She brought the juice to me within a few minutes, then left while the rest of my breakfast cooked. I sipped my juice and watched the doors. Any second Wichman would show his face, which I’d last seen on a rainy, muddy hilltop surrounded by gun-toting enemies and bodies of Rethans. His presence would not only bring it all back, something I wanted very much to forget, but there was the possibility he would bring with him the very people who wanted me dead.
Linda bustled from the kitchen and placed a steaming plate in front of me.
“Thanks so much,” I said.
“You’re welcome, hon. Anything else I can get for ya?”
“Nope. This looks great. Oh, and hey, I’m meeting someone here this morning.” I gave a giggle I hoped didn’t sound too phony. That was me with the hat and the sunglasses—phony through and through. “He’s an older guy I met on the Internet. Real cute in a bald head and mustache sort of way. When he gets here will you make sure we get a little privacy?”
“Sure,” she drew out the word. Concern wilted her brisk demeanor. She paused with the tray balanced on one hand. Shaking her head, she headed toward the kitchen. She paused and turned back to me. “I don’t like to meddle, but you sure he’s safe, sweetie?”
“Not really.” I exhaled a determined huff. “That’s why I’m meeting him in a public place. I’ll give him a chance. He might just be the connection I’m looking for.”
“All right, hon. I hope you know what you’re doin’.”
“Me too,” I whispered to myself as she walked away to help an older couple sitting several booths down.
Thurmond was supposed to circle the block and then take up residence on a bench across the street and facing The Brewer’s Swill. I couldn’t see him from here, but it was comforting to know he was close by.
It was another ten minutes before Sergeant Wichman strode past the large front window. Sunlight glinted off his bald head. He stood in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust. His face displayed a two days growth of graying beard, and his button-down shirt was bunched and wrinkled. A tight fist gnarled my stomach.
“Jim,” I called out, with an enthusiastic wave.
His reaction was comedic, complete with a jerking of his head that must’ve cricked his neck and a dropping jaw that put his chin on his chest. He was very good at recovering from shock though, because he was sliding onto the bench opposite me before I could put my hand down.
“Sonuva-bitch! Rose? Is that really you?” He smoothed his mustache with two fingers, leaning back to examine my face.
“Yep, alive and kicking.”
“I can’t believe you’re here. That you’re okay.” His genuine surprise and pleasure took me aback.
“Yeah, I know. Big surprise.”
Sergeant Wichman glanced over his shoulder, clearly uncomfortable having his back to the door.
“How’d you get out of there?” he asked.
“You mean after you left me for dead?”
He stopped fidgeting and gave me a deadpan stare. “Leaving you there was the only way I could think to save your life, Rose.”
“I bet it was.”
“So?” he prompted.
Like I was going to tell him. “I bench-pressed the Hummer off of my leg, resurrected Thurmond, and we double-timed to the nearest hospital.” I pulled off my sunglasses, laid them on the table, and looked Wichman in the eye.
His skin paled, and his mouth fell open again.
“Damn, Rose. They gave you Azshatath didn’t they? A pretty heavy dose too, by the looks of it. They should’ve given you enough Vizshathain to bring you back to normal though. You can’t be walking around like—”
“Shut up, Sarge.” I lifted my hat to scratch the healing skin around my stitches. “Don’t talk like you’re not a part of whatever the commander’s up to. Maybe you didn’t hear me? You. Left. Us. For. Dead.”
Wichman sat back. “I came back the first chance I got, but you were already gone. What the hell was I supposed to do?”
I was reasonable enough to understand the logic of what he was saying. If the commander had known I was alive there would have been no misfires into the mud. However, I wasn’t going to let him walk away without taking any responsibility.
“Oh I don’t know—not allow it to happen in the first place? Bring in your DLA troops before the commander even got on the plane?”
“You don’t understand the half of what’s going on.” Wichman rubbed an eye in clear exhaustion.
“Then enlighten me,” I said.
“I was under the impression I’d be talking to Boderick.”
“That was the idea.”
“What are you doing here, Rose?” Wichman absently dumped salt into his hand and tossed it on my untouched eggs. “You could’ve gone into hiding and no one would ever come looking.”
“Hiding from the commander, or from you and the rest of the DLA?”
“The commander, of course.”
“Because if I’m really who everyone says I am, I’d think the DLA would want to make good and sure I wasn’t about to kill a million people. Or maybe they’ll just rush in and cover it up, so no one knew anything ever happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Staff Sergeant Mary Chatting. Corporal Jeremy Toon. Officers Kyle Ferguson, Casey Wright, and Benjamin Rose.” As I rattled off the list Wichman’s face went from confusion, to understanding, to a blank mask. “Do you want me to go on?”
“Stop it, Rose. This isn’t the time or the place for any of this.”
I released a frustrated growl. “Come on, Sarge. How about we stop playing games here.”
“That’s a great idea. You can stop pretending to be someone you’re not, and I’ll stop pretending I don’t have information far above your clearance.”
“Oh, that’s rich! Pull out the whole need to know act. I’m a counterintelligence agent in the US Army. I happen to have top-secret clearance, and I should think my obvious appearance change would cover the dimensional angle. As a concerned daughter I definitely have the right to know.”
Sergeant Wichman looked behind him again and then scratched at a dirty spot on the table. I hoped he was just being cautious and not actually expecting someone. He rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb.
“You want some intel, Rose? I guarantee you won’t like it.”
I leaned forward. Wichman’s face hardened, and I almost retracted my request.
“My original assignment wasn’t anything more than to do an O and I,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Observe and interact. I was assigned as your squad leader to keep an eye on you.”
“Why?”
“There’s been some . . . stuff happening in the inter-dimensional community over the last seventy-two months, pointing directly to your involvement.”
“What?” I wasn’t involved in anything until the last week, except . . . “I didn’t—”
“I know that.” Wichman held up a hand. “I’ve been the one on your tail. You’ve always just been US Army Specialist Kris Rose.”
I rubbed my knuckles on my cheek. I barely remembered who that was anymore. “So what’s been going on?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I can keep up.”
“Let’s say that the plan ‘you’ put into motion twenty-two years ago, the one that you murdered all those Rethans over, appears to once again be in the planning stage.”
“You can’t be any more specific than that?”
“I won’t be any more specific than that.”
“Why not?
“Because with all that Azshatath in you
r system, your mind has got to be pretty unstable.”
I shrugged off that very real truth. “Okay, then tell me why the commander wants me dead.”
It was Wichman’s turn to shrug. “I thought at first it was one of those ‘wrong place, wrong time’ instances, until you followed us onto the plane.”
“You guys took Thurmond. What was I supposed to do?” An ache pounded above my ear. I fingered the blade of a butter knife.
“Now hold on, Rose.” Wichman held up his hands, his expression telling me he was prepared for a bad reaction. I thought I was holding it together quite well, considering. “I know you were friends, and it’s destroying me what happened to him, but you’ve got to believe me. I thought I was sending him to give you a ride back to base, not getting him killed.”
My knuckles whitened around the knife and I reminded myself that, despite Wichman speaking of Thurmond in the past tense, Thurmond wasn’t dead. He was right outside on the bench. I set the knife back on the table with some effort and pried my fingers from the handle.
“If you were tasked to follow me, how did you end up on the commander’s crew?”
“It didn’t take much to identify her as a Rethan. A Rethan in the military is unusual enough, but one who comes out of nowhere, who’s not a RAGE inmate or a registered denigrated entrepreneur, throws up a lot of red flags. Now compound that with her proximity to you and all the other bells going off in regards to your past, and we had a serious problem. My workload suddenly doubled.”
“So who is she?”
“We know she’s not really Major Jamie Kuntz.”
“No duh.”
“She’s been impersonating the real Major Kuntz for at least a year, maybe more. The investigation was still underway when we flew out on the C-130.”
“What’s her connection to me?”
“Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”
“There’s nothing about her in my DLA file or anything?”