Tall frowns. “It could be,” he admits, “though I hope not. I get their newsletter—I helped with some of the activities for my niece’s troop once or twice, so they put me on the email list—and it’s always looked innocuous enough.” You’ve gotta get inoculations just to be on their email list? Whoa, talk about strict! “I can look into it, though, find out who’s in charge these days and pay them a visit.” Somehow I don’t think that would wind up involving tea and cookies. Especially not now.
“If we could identify whatever is changing the cookies’ taste and altering the brain chemistry of whoever eats them, we might be able to track that back to the person responsible,” Mary points out. “I ran an analysis on a ChocoMint the other day, but the results were inconclusive. The ingredients were too muddled together for me to pick out anything particularly alarming or out of place. I suspect some peculiarity in the baking process may have something to do with that, though there could also be something about the additives we seek that allows them to mask themselves—I have encountered a few such naturally camouflaged elements in the past, in different contexts. It would help if I had an uncontaminated sample to compare them to, such as a box of cookies from before all this trouble began, but it seems no one is capable of keeping them for very long.” Yeah, there was a mercifully brief glare directed my way at that one, but I catch Tall looking a little guilty, as well. So there, Mister I’ve-got-the-willpower-of-a-saint-I-freeze-them-and-only-eat-a-box-a-month! Guess being a cookie zombie kinda killed that, huh?
“Well, somebody’s gotta know, right?” I offer. “Somebody’s putting whatever it is into those cookies.”
Tall’s eyes get all wide, and he hits me with a No. Six stare: “So your brain does sometimes work after all!” That’s the same look he always gives me when I get something right or come up with a brilliant plan, so I’m not all that surprised when he says, “That’s it! We’ve got to investigate this at the source!”
“I thought we didn’t know the source?” But he waves my question aside.
“Not who’s behind it,” he says, “but where they’ve done it. And there’s only one place that makes sense—on the factory floor.”
“So we’re going to a CampGirl cookie factory?” I can’t believe it. It’s like I’ve died and gone to Heaven. I’m pretty sure they have choirs of angels up in the factory’s rafters, singing hymns as people walk underneath and stop at the free cookie stations, cookie slides, cookie contraptions, and cookie fountains. Oh, the bliss!
My spirits deflate when the three of them all give me a Number One. “You can’t go anywhere, remember?” Ned asks me. “Guardian of the Matrix, constantly plugged in, deliriously happy?”
“I’m not so sure about the happy part,” I grouse, kicking the wall. Again Mary does the quirked-eyebrow thing. I’ve already figured out I have absolutely no defense against that. “Oh, all right, yes, my life is awesome. Most of the time. But come on, you’re going to a CampGirl cookie factory and I can’t go along? That’s so cruel!”
“You know we would rather have you with us if we could,” Mary assures me.
“And you can still see and hear everything that goes on,” Tall reminds me sharply. Then, when Ned and Mary look confused, he explains about the camera and the mic. And looks even more annoyed when he realizes from their lack of reaction that they both already knew.
“It’s not the same,” I complain, banging the wall again. But it was just wishful thinking on my part.
“We should go right away,” Tall urges. “They may already suspect I’m on to them, and I don’t want to give them time to plan.”
Mary nods and then her face gets that weird “listening to the voices in my head” look and I know she’s speaking with the Grays. Tall was annoyed when I claimed I’d called directly into his head—I can only imagine what Mary has to put up with from those little guys. It gives me the willies.
“They will transport us,” she announces after she’s done. “Where exactly are we going?”
Tall nods. “There’re only two official CampGirl cookie factories,” he answers. “One’s in Louisville, Kentucky. The other’s in Richmond, Virginia.”
“Does it matter which one we try first?” Ned asks.
“They’re supposed to use the same recipes,” Tall tells him, “but it’s possible one’s involved and the other isn’t. We can check the control numbers on the boxes, to make sure, but since I think they each service different regions, we should only be dealing with one of the factories here.” He frowns. “Actually, there’s an easy way to be sure—they have different names for some of the cookies. Not ChocoMints, but a few of the others. It’s a trademark thing.”
“You said you had Island Delights and PB Sandwiches at work,” I remember. I have a really good memory for sweets—I still remember the candy bars I stole from Dooley Jenkins in the third grade. “Which factory is that?”
Tall closes his eyes for a second. Then they pop back open, and he smirks. “Alphabet Bakery,” he answers. “Just outside Richmond, Virginia.”
Mary nods. “Then that is where we shall go.” She steps over and gives me a warm smile and a quick kiss on the cheek. “We will return shortly.”
“I’ll be here.” I tug absently on the cord from my crown. Where the hell else’m I gonna be? “I’ll watch, and let you know if I spot anything you don’t,” I add, both because I want to be useful and because at least this way I get to see Tall scowl again right before the three of them start to shimmer. The shimmering grows, covering more and more of them and getting brighter and brighter until I can’t look at it directly. Then it just vanishes, all the light and warmth, and Ned and Tall and Mary are gone with it.
“Back to the computer,” I mutter to myself, and turn to make my way back toward my living room. En route I grab the half-empty bag of popcorn. Hey, it’s brain food, okay?
Chapter Nineteen
C is for Cookie
“So that’s a cookie factory, huh?” I ask as I plop down in my chair. They’ve already materialized, of course—it only takes a minute or two to cover the distance from what I now think of as “Brad’s room” to my living room, but the Grays’ matter transporter doohickey is instantaneous, as near as I can tell, so they win that particular race. Which is probably for the best—I’m not sure I’d want to see what was going on around Tall when he was being broken apart into component atoms and beamed halfway across the galaxy, or whether my brain could handle it if I did. For that matter, if the camera was scattered into bits too, I wouldn’t have seen anything regardless. Oh well.
But now they’re back in one piece—I mean each of them is in one piece, not they’re all muddled together into one big piece, which would be gross and a serious invasion of privacy—and they’re standing there looking over at . . . an office building. Because that’s what it looks like to me. A big, white brick office building, two stories tall but really wide, with a solid band of windows around the upper floor and a matching one around the ground floor and a big overhang jutting out from the front like it was a hotel and they wanted you to pull your car around there for the valet. Across the front of that overhang are the words “Alphabet Bakery” and their logo, and that’s the only decoration I see anywhere, not counting the American flag waving out front, but there’s a nice green lawn that spreads out around the building and glossy dark green bushes just under the windows and small trees in big pots on either side of the sliding glass doors. It all looks very bland and very friendly and not at all like the kind of place where they’d have mind-control drugs they were using to captivate most of the country. I guess that’s the sort of thing they don’t want to put on a big banner across the front.
“There’re loading docks around back,” Tall says as he stalks up the circular drive toward those front doors. “We could go in that way, might draw less attention at first, but it’d take longer to work our way through and get to the CEO or somebody else high up enough to answer our questions. I’m for the direct route.” Of c
ourse he is. He’s like a big angry bull, and those doors are a red flag. I’m almost surprised I don’t hear him snort, though I do think the suit and sunglasses are a better choice for him than black leather and a nose ring.
“I’ll go around back,” Ned offers. “I can start scanning for any nonterrestrial tech, work my way up and in, see if I can find anything out that way.”
Mary nods. “I will go with Tall,” she says, “in case he encounters any of those same elements.”
Ned turns away, and I lean forward and grab my mic. “Uh,” I say, “nobody else thinks it could be a problem to send the goofy little green guy with the broccoli horns off by himself? You don’t think people’ll notice him?”
“I doubt it,” Tall answers as he resumes his trek toward the front doors. “Ned looks human enough, if you just get a quick glimpse at him.” Yeah, and you’re colorblind, I don’t say out loud. “And he sounds completely normal. I’ve found that makes a lot more difference. Act like you belong and everyone will just assume you do.” Really? I have to try that the next time I “accidentally” wander into an all-female steam bath. I’m sure nobody’ll notice.
He reaches the front doors, which slide open to reveal a nice lobby, friendly but understated, and a big wide reception desk just in front of the back wall. A young woman stands there, wearing typical business-casual clothing, and she gives Tall a big smile as he approaches her. I see her big green eyes slide over to Mary for just a second, then flick away, and I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. Guys, when we see another guy who’s better built than we are or better looking or just richer and more successful, we tend to glower for a second and then move on to trying to drink him under the table or beat him at pool or talk over the punchlines to all his jokes. Women, though, tend to be a lot more cutthroat. I’ve seen hot chicks at a party when another, hotter chick walks in—they go rigid for a second, fiery death shooting from their eyes like molten lava, the temperature around them paradoxically dropping twenty degrees from the brittle cold they exude, and you can just about hear the sound of claws being sharpened on a big ol’ whetstone. Then they’re suddenly all smiles again, and call her over and act all nice and friendly, all the while circling her like a pack of hyenas, darting in whenever there’s an opening to jab and snap and bite, twirling little poisoned daggers and looking for places to plant the blades. And naturally Mary would get the worst of that sort of treatment, as she’s not only the hottest woman since Eve (who only has her beat because she set the standard) or maybe Helen of Troy (who got entire countries to die over her beauty, which isn’t what I’d normally call a ringing endorsement but what the hell), she’s also a bonafide supergenius. Which is why I’m impressed that this little lady gives her one quick sizing-her-up glance and then ignores her—sure, there’s a little spite there, but it’s a lot less nasty than I’d expect, more of an “I can’t compete so I’m not even gonna try” than a “I will ignore your very existence while I contemplate the most effective way to dispose of you.”
“Hi, and welcome to Alphabet Bakery,” the lady in question offers, her voice loud and cheery and filled with the soft twang of Virginia. “What can I help you with today?” Her gaze stays on Tall, but he is a big, rugged guy, so I guess I can understand that. Mary doesn’t complain, either—she’s letting Tall do the talking, which is probably a wise move here.
“I need to speak with your CEO,” Tall informs the young woman as he reaches the desk and peers down at her. “Right away.”
She frowns, but it’s one of those cute-girl “I’m so sorry” frowns, not a real big “well, isn’t that a pisser” look. “Ms. Daniels-Axland is real busy, I’m afraid,” she says slowly. “I don’t know that she’s got any time right now to see anybody unless you’ve already got yourself an appointment.”
A shadow falls across her, this big, looming thing full of menace, and I see her smile falter and her eyes go wide. For a second I think that smokedancer, Vic whatever, has somehow shown up here. Then I realize it’s just Tall, plying his “big spooky MiB” mojo.
“It wasn’t a request,” he tells her, and his voice has dropped at least three octaves and maybe a subbasement or two. It’s also doing the whole rocks-grinding-against-each-other thing, though I happen to know that’s just his teeth. “Get her. Now.”
The girl gulps and picks up the phone. “Hello, Wendy?” she says after a second. “It’s Kelly. There’s a guy here to see Ms. Daniels-Axland.” She gulps again, and lowers her voice, turning away a little bit. I can still hear her just fine, though, which makes me wonder just how powerful these mics really are. I have to remember to keep mine well away from the bathroom. “I don’t know, he didn’t give one,” she whispers, “but he’s big and scary and looks like a Fed or something. Yeah.” She nods and looks a little relieved. “Okay, thanks.” Then she hangs up the phone and turns back to Tall and Mary. “Ms. Daniels-Axland is on her way down,” she tells them.
Tall just nods, but Mary says, “Thank you.” The girl—Kelly—nods back but her eyes don’t leave Tall. She’s like a deer watching a dozing lion, knowing he’s quiet now but could wake and decide he wants a late-afternoon snack at any second.
Fortunately it’s only a minute before the door to the side of the desk opens and a woman steps through. At first glance I think it’s Mrs. Claus, only she’s got herself a nice power suit. She’s not too tall, plump, with a wide, friendly face and white hair pulled back in a slightly messy bun. Her eyes are sharp but look kind, and she has a smile on her face as she approaches. “I hear y’all have something you need to speak with me about,” she says, and her accent’s just as pronounced as Kelly’s. Guess Alphabet likes to hire locally. “I’m Robinette Daniels-Axland, but y’all can call me Rosie, everybody does.” She offers her hand, which looks just as friendly as the rest of her, and I can’t help but mentally superimpose a flowery apron atop her business attire. She looks like everybody’s favorite grandma. Well, not mine, exactly—Grandma Spinowitz was a little fireplug of a woman who could spit tobacco farther and more accurately than anyone I ever saw and liked to belt out show tunes in her native Polish and taught me to bake and to fight and to curse, usually all at the same time. But you get the picture.
“A pleasure.” Tall shakes her hand but doesn’t introduce himself, and I can see a tiny furrow appear between her eyes for just a second as she absorbs that fact, along with his black suit and sunglasses and towering presence. “Is there someplace where we can speak more privately?”
“Of course.” Rosie gives Kelly a little “I’ll take it from here, sweetie” wave and opens the door again, holding it for them. “We’ll head on up to my office. And I didn’t catch your names,” she adds as Tall stomps past her, with Mary presumably right behind him.”
“Mary,” I hear my girlfriend answer. “And this is Agent Thomas.” Tall growls a little at that—guess it’s in the MiB handbook not to give your name unless you have to, or maybe it’s just a little informal competition between agents to see who can withhold that info the longest, but he doesn’t try to deny it. Rosie sidles past him and leads the way, which is good because Tall’s just stopped dead—and I can see why.
The building’s a shell, really. It’s two stories tall because there’re offices arranged around the outer edge of the second floor, with stairs here and there leading up to that level. But the whole rest of the place is one big, open space. Filled with people and machines and boxes and crates and sacks—
Of cookies.
And Tall’s just been made to hate cookies with every fiber of his being. Now here he is, staring at literally hundreds of thousands of them, all in one place.
This could be bad.
“Focus, Tall,” I hear Mary whisper to him. “Remember why we’re here.”
He nods sharply—I almost get whiplash—and follows Rosie, who’s already halfway up the stairs. His longer strides catch up easily, though, and he’s right behind her when she opens a glass door onto a nice big office.
It’s
funny how much you can tell about a person from the way they keep and decorate their office. You can see if somebody’s messy or neat, organized or scattered, silly or serious, a family guy or a loner or a wolf on the prowl. My old office spaces were always filled with action figures and cartoons and beer paraphernalia and of course the duck-related tchotchkes co-workers thought it was hilarious to give me, duck whistles and duck-hunting caps and Donald Duck figures and so on. I’ve seen Tall’s desk and it’s pristine, no pictures or frivolous items of any kind, just his computer and an In box and an Out box and one of those little magnetic holders for paperclips and a pen holder with some pens and a mug with the Yankees logo on it, which is the most personal thing he’s got there. Mary doesn’t have an office anywhere—near as I can tell, she basically beams her mental reports directly to the Grays, like an internal fax machine—but if she did I imagine it’d be scrupulously neat and pretty spare, but with framed photos of some of the cooler places she’s been and the crystal travel mug I got her (refracts light so it can actually reheat your beverage if you set it somewhere sunny for a few minutes, which I thought was cool because I hate it when you’re drinking your coffee or your chai or your hot chocolate and it’s steaming hot for the first few gulps and nicely warm for the next few but barely lukewarm after that and almost cold by the time you reach the bottom) and maybe, I flatter myself, a picture of me somewhere, too.
Rosie’s office looks like a cross between a knitting circle and a Fortune 500 executive suite. The furniture is all polished wood, very high-end power suit variety, except the couch looks comfy and there’s a wooden rocking chair next to it and both have what’re obviously handmade throws over them. There’s a fancy-schmancy computer on the desk, and an all-in-one printer-fax-copier on the credenza behind it, but the monitor’s got one of those bulletin board frames around it with pictures and Post-its all over the place and there’s a spider plant sitting next to the printer with its tendrils wrapped around like it’s about to confide something big and the mug next to the computer says “#1 Grandma” and has that lopsided look you can only get when a little kid tries to make something themselves. The diplomas and awards on the wall vie with photos of Rosie with kids, most of them in CampGirl uniforms, and the different uniforms make it clear these were taken over a decade or two at least, though she looks exactly the same in all of them. Okay, her suits’ve changed a little in style, but not much. Two of the walls’re mostly windows—the outer one, which looks out over the lawn and the driveway to the street beyond, and the inner one, which looks out on the factory floor. This’s definitely a woman who likes to keep her eye on things, just like a grandma who’s always watching but not getting in the way because she’d rather let you screw up and learn for yourself as long as it’s not gonna cost you an eye or a limb.
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