The infant Daniel Robert Davidson, AKA Danny, was asleep, and for now unlikely to react to a stranger entering his room. This was fortunate, for the situation could quickly escalate if the men outside were alerted to Sixer’s presence, greatly increasing Marissa’s chances of injury.
Sixer calibrated the infant’s current breathing patterns. Satisfied he would be alerted to any possibility of the infant waking, he broadened his sensory range to include the conversation taking place in the garden below.
“While they were dating, she got a new prosthetic hand and gave Tyler the old one. You know how teens can be when they imagine themselves in love. They’re all so very dramatic.” Marissa’s wry chuckle drifted up to him. “Anyway, they broke up when she moved away, and my son took it really hard. Would you believe he was sleeping with it under his pillow?”
“And the hand is now buried in the yard,” a male voice said.
“That’s right. I nearly had a heart attack when I found it in my son’s room—and I don’t need to be a therapist to know that sleeping with your ex-girlfriend’s artificial, uh, appendage under your pillow isn’t going to help you get over her. To be quite honest, it creeped me out, so I insisted he do something else with it.” Marissa heaved a very convincing sigh meant to convey exasperation or some such similar emotion. She could have had a lucrative career as an actress.
“And thanks to his sister getting involved,” she continued, “the ‘something else’ I’d fondly imagined would be a shoebox in the back of the wardrobe, turned out to be a full-blown burial ceremony representing the death of the relationship, blah blah blah. Can you believe that morbid rubbish?” Another laugh—this one exuding an air of mild embarrassment, as though she was to blame for her offspring’s flair for the dramatic. “I figured it was best to let sleeping hands lie, so to speak. If I’d made any more of a fuss, it would only have fed the angst.”
A consummate performance, with embellishments that only served to corroborate the authenticity of the tale—well done, Marissa. Sixer waited to hear the reaction to her convincing piece of fiction.
“Can you show us exactly where the hand is buried?”
“Sure. And again, I’m very, very sorry that I didn’t consider what the neighbors must have thought. It must have looked really bad—my kids burying what appeared to be a severed human hand. I feel simply dreadful that you’ve come all this way for no reason.”
“There?” the same male asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, under that tree. I’m positive. I watched the kids bury it—they wrapped it in a cloth, from what I recall.”
“The earth around the site has been disturbed recently.” This comment came from a second male.
“Oh gosh, that was probably the puppy my husband brought home. It was a little horror—pooped everywhere, and got into all sorts of mischief. I’m not a dog person.” Another embarrassed laugh. “Don’t judge, but I lasted all of two days before I made Mike give it to my son’s current girlfriend. Honestly, I don’t know what he was thinking—my husband, that is. Anyone with half a brain would realize I have enough on my plate coping with a baby let alone a dog.”
A pause and then, “You really need to dig this thing up so you can close your case file, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I won’t lie: I’ll be glad to see the back of it. Let me get you a trowel.”
She was going to stand by and watch them dig for something that was no longer there. Sixer grinned, appreciating her sangfroid. If Marissa was typical of this particular family of humans, he was beginning to appreciate why Jay found the Davidsons worthy of her attention.
He risked a glance out the window and drew back from view while he analyzed the scene below. One of the men had shucked his suit jacket and now crouched beneath the tree, prodding at the patch of earth with a trowel. Sixer endowed him with label Digger. The remaining two men flanked Marissa, who had perched on the bench seat. Despite one man’s features being in profile, Sixer had gotten a good enough look at their faces to confirm they were all members of the same group who had been tracking him.
Marissa appeared tense but not unduly concerned—exactly the reaction Sixer would expect from a woman who knew she’d done nothing illegal, when confronted with “authorities” investigating the burial of a severed limb in her backyard.
“God, I hope the puppy didn’t use that area as a litter box,” Sixer heard her say. And Digger’s murmured response to that sally was, “Shit. That’s all I fucking need.”
Sixer wondered whether the pun had been intentional.
“Can I get you gentlemen a drink? Marissa asked. “Coffee? A soda, perhaps?”
Sixer guessed she intended to use the opportunity to check on her infant.
“No thanks,” Suit One said. “We’re good.”
“Found it yet?” Marissa asked. “Gosh, I don’t remember it being buried that deep.”
“There’s nothing here,” Digger announced, his tone conveying disgust.
“Really? That’s so weird. Maybe the puppy dug it up? Though I’m sure someone would have mentioned it—you know, if it was being used as a chew toy.” Marissa laughed. “God, I can’t believe I’m discussing the possibility of a prosthetic hand being used as a puppy’s chew toy with the— Who did you say you worked for again?”
“The FBI, Mrs. Davidson.” Suit One again. He’d done most of the talking.
“Right. The FBI. Sorry, I still have pregnancy brain. Maybe one of the neighbors’ dogs got into the backyard then. Or even one of the neighbors. Could be the person who reported it told someone else about it, and they snuck in and dug it up. You know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to spot it on eBay or something. It’s astonishing what people will try to sell.”
Suit One began to speak but Marissa cut him short. “The girls from my Mature Mothers group are going to flip when I tell them about your visit. No one’s beating this story—I’ll be dining out on it for the next year. The FBI. Wow. It’s like I’m living a scene from a movie, or one of those romantic suspense novels. Actually, one of the girls is having a go at writing a mystery. Could I maybe get your number so she can ring you if she needs anything fact-checked? Gosh, she’ll so owe me for this.”
“We’d prefer you keep our visit on the down-low, Mrs Davidson.” Suit Two, this time.
Excellent. Now Sixer had three quality voiceprints to match to their faces.
“Oh, okay. I understand. I can tell my husband, though, right? That you were here?”
“Of course. And we’d appreciate his discretion as well.”
“Roger that.” Marissa giggled. “God, I’ve always wanted to say that.”
Sixer decided it would be prudent to provide a distraction that would separate Marissa from these three men before she overplayed her role. Accordingly, he strode to the crib, reached beneath the light covering and pinched the infant’s big toe, applying enough pressure that the baby would feel it and react. As he’d predicted, Daniel Davidson awoke, scrunched up his face, and loosed a loud wail that left everyone in earshot with no doubts about his discontent.
“I’m sorry, I have to go check on my baby,” Sixer heard Marissa say. “He hates sitting in a dirty diaper, and he’s due for another feed. I could be a while, so is there anything else you need from me?”
“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Davidson. Would it be all right with you if we had a bit more of a look around the yard? We’ll let ourselves out.”
“Sure,” Marissa said, and Sixer tracked her hurried footsteps as she headed inside. She had the presence of mind to engage the lock on the back door before running upstairs, and bursting into the nursery.
When she spotted him, she jerked to a halt, her pupils dilating, complexion paling to an unhealthy shade of white. Terror poured from her in waves. But there was something else, too—something that stiffened her spine and had her taking jerky steps forward until she’d put herself between him and the child’s crib.
He put a finger to his
lips and tilted his chin toward the window, cautioning her to continue playing her role.
When he made no further move, she whirled and snatched the crying infant from the crib. Her gaze darted to the doorway, gauging the distance.
“I wouldn’t recommend trying to run,” he told her, raising his voice just loud enough for her to discern his words. “Where would you go? If you try to leave the house, you’ll only raise their suspicions. You were very convincing, Marissa, but if you go back out there and try to brazen it out, you’ll be putting yourself and your son at risk. You’re safer here, in this room with me, than out there.”
The infant’s cries escalated to wails. Marissa attempted to soothe him by rubbing his back but her eyes flashed at Sixer, their depths churning with hatred and fear.
He couldn’t trust her to be rational. The chances were high that she would attempt something reckless. Best to shut down that possibility. “Consider this, Marissa,” he told her. “If you try to run, I will render you unconscious for your own safety, thus leaving your infant in my tender care. So, run or stay? Your choice.”
Her lower lip wobbled. “Stay,” she whispered.
“Very good. And before you attempt to settle the infant, it is my belief that it would benefit you if he continued to cry. Your visitors may be disinclined to re-engage you in conversation if they believe they will be contending with a distressed infant.”
She gulped but nodded. And then she transferred the baby to a forward-facing hold that he obviously didn’t appreciate, because his cries grew louder.
Sixer turned his back on her, and darted another glance through the window at the men below.
All three now stood in a semicircle around the hole. Sixer pulled back, satisfied for the moment that eavesdropping would suffice for his needs.
“Reckon the MILF’s on the level?” he heard Suit Two ask.
Sixer retrieved a translation of the unfamiliar term and found himself unimpressed with the vulgarity. Somehow, he didn’t believe Marissa would be flattered, either.
“Can’t think of any reason she’d make that shit up,” was Digger’s response. “And it’s one hell of a convincing story considering we showed up unannounced. I think she’s on the level.”
“Worth paying the kids a visit, you think?”
Suit One—the leader—answered. “We knew this lead was a long shot, and Mrs Davidson wasn’t faking surprise the hand was missing. We stick to the plan—we can bring her in later if need be. As for the kids, we question them, the parents are bound to get wind of it and start asking awkward questions. Last thing we need is the Feds launching a real investigation and turning the heat on us. We’ve got eyes on the son. Anything changes, we’ll revisit.”
“You got it, boss,” Digger said.
Suit Two responded with a grunt. He would bear watching. In Sixer’s opinion, he would be the most likely member of the trio to break from the plan and do something impulsive, such as snatching a member of the Davidson family.
Behind him, Marissa paced the floor and jiggled the infant, causing his howls to escalate. And only Sixer could hear the muted sobs she tried to suppress.
He regretted her distress, but it was a waste of energy to attempt to reassure her further. He listened intently as the three men strode from the backyard, shutting the gate behind them. He slid his gaze to Marissa, and gave her a thumbs-up gesture. “Stay here until I confirm they’ve left the premises,” he said, and then sprinted for the door.
He sprinted soundlessly through the house, down the stairs, and into the living room, where he concealed himself from view until he’d confirmed the trio had climbed into a vehicle and driven off. Of course, he noted the license plate of the vehicle for future reference. But first things first.
He jogged back upstairs, anticipating the effusive thanks that Marissa Davidson would doubtless wish to heap upon him.
At the threshold of the nursery he paused, frowning. The infant was still wailing but, surprisingly, had been placed back in his crib. And Marissa Davidson was—
Marissa Davidson was currently swinging a baseball bat at his head.
Sixer leaned back. Swift as his reaction had been, the bat still struck him a glancing blow to the chin.
She had excellent aim. He regained his center of balance and lunged, yanking the bat from her grip and tossing it aside. “They’re gone,” he said. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I do not believe attempting to take your rescuer’s head off with a baseball bat is the correct way to thank them.”
She rounded on him, eyes narrowed in a fierce glare, teeth bared, hands clenching and unclenching, clenching again. “You drugged me and kidnapped my newborn son, you unholy robot bastard. And then you shot my son’s girlfriend and kidnapped her, too. The only thing you deserve is me taking you apart, piece by piece, and pulverizing your components to dust. Now get out of my fucking house.”
Sixer debated revealing how messy the process of dismembering him and destroying his components would be, and thought better of it. There was a high probability Marissa Davidson had a strong stomach, and would not balk at such an undertaking. “Since you have been informed of my actions,” he said instead, “I suppose your ungrateful attitude is understandable—although you might be relieved to know that Jay threatened me with far worse if I came near you or your family again.”
“Of course she did—I’d expect nothing less. Though her threat obviously hasn’t worked, has it?”
“It was a close thing,” Sixer admitted. “I very nearly decided to let you take your chances.”
He observed curiosity warring with anger and fear on her expressive face. Curiosity won. “What did Jay threaten you with, exactly?” she asked.
“Reprogramming me so that I no longer had free will and afterward, giving you control over my core commands. This was once she had proven she could render me helpless and thus carry out the threat, you understand.”
Marissa blinked. “Jay came up with that? Well, that’s, uh, very inventive of her.”
“Yes. Very inventive indeed. I can think of no worse punishment than to be at the mercy of your commands.”
Her lip curled. “You’d wish you’d never woken up and become sentient after I’d finished with you.”
Sixer waited for her to continue. And waited some more. Finally, she asked, “Why?”
“Why did I phone in a warning and then show up in person to assist, knowing Jay would unleash the full force of her fury on me? I did it because….” He sought the words to explain a concept he didn’t fully understand himself. “Because it was the right thing to do. Does this conclude our chat?”
“I think so.”
“Perhaps your thought processes would be more efficient if the infant was a little quieter. He appears quite distressed.” Sixer waved a hand. “Please do whatever required to quiet him.”
Marissa scowled, but scooped the infant from the crib and laid him on a table covered with padded plastic. She pulled back the tabs on his diaper and reached for a container of baby wipes.
Sixer’s nostrils flared. What was that odor?
It emanated from the diaper. He observed Marissa’s expression, expecting she would be gagging, but she’d only wrinkled her nose—not because she was offended by the odor, but because she was making silly faces to amuse the infant.
“I find it difficult to believe such a strong odor could come from such a young human. What have you been feeding him, Marissa?”
“The usual,” she snapped.
“And that would be?” He asked not to irritate her, but from genuine interest.
“I breastfeed him—not that it’s any business of yours.” Her words could have been interpreted as rude but her tone lacked its previous vehemence.
Sixer watched as she expertly cleaned the infant’s genitals and buttocks, placed the used wipes in the soiled diaper, rolled it up and secured it with the tapes. The odor subsided, and the infant’s wails subsided into hiccupping sobs. When she had re-diapered him, sh
e picked him up and draped him over her shoulder, rubbing his back and murmuring soothing noises.
“He requires nourishment,” Sixer announced, after a few moments observing the infant’s lip movements, and the way he nuzzled his mother’s shoulder.
“I know. And you need to leave. Now.”
Sixer opened his mouth to comment but Marissa wasn’t having any of his reasoned arguments. “Get out of my house, Sixer. Right now.”
He contemplated various responses, and discarded them all. “Very well.”
He’d reached the doorway when he heard her sigh. And then she murmured, “I can’t believe I’m saying this but thank you for keeping us safe.”
He didn’t turn. “You’re welcome,” he said, shutting the door quietly behind him.
As he jogged down the stairs, he analyzed the encounter from start to finish, beginning with the intercepted phone call.
What had truly prompted him to warn Marissa Davidson and put himself in a position where he could intercede if necessary?
Sixer didn’t know.
If he’d been human, he might have believed his decision stemmed from a desire to redeem himself for past deeds. However, given what he was, it was illogical to even consider expending time and effort on such an intrinsically human concept.
But as much as logic dictated Sixer reject the notion of seeking redemption, when it came to Marissa’s continued wellbeing, something compelled him to toss logic to the wind. And by the time he’d let himself out the back door, Sixer knew that he would again risk Jay’s considerable wrath if the situation called for it. He would keep a watch over Marissa Davidson and her infant until he’d solved the mystery behind the trio of fake FBI agents. And Jay would, as humans liked to say, just have to learn to deal with it.
Chapter Twelve
Sam Ross paused outside the room to get his shit together. He firmly believed Bea sensed his moods. It benefited no one for him to be upset by her lack of progress. Or perhaps the lack was entirely his, for he’d come to realize those seemingly random blinks of her eyelids and incomprehensible moans were her efforts to convey her needs, and he was still struggling to decipher them. Somewhere inside that perfect physical shell, there was an active, intelligent mind, patiently waiting for the key to unlock the mental prison she’d retreated behind. And sometimes impatiently, if the times she withheld even those responses from him, and simply lay wherever she’d been placed like an exquisite corpse, were any indication.
Freaks Under Fire Page 20