“Now,” Rosie says as she moves over to the little seating area and settles into her rocking chair, gesturing Tall and Mary toward the couch. “What can I do for you two?” Then she reaches over to the little table beside her, retrieves something, and turns back to them. My heart almost stops when I realize it’s an all-too-familiar, brightly colored box, already opened, and I swear I can practically smell the chocolate and mint wafting from it as she waves the box toward Tall. “Would y’all like a cookie?”
Oh, boy.
Chapter Twenty
Fortunately not Pamplona
That’s gotta be at least a 3.5 on the Richter scale, the grinding coming from Tall’s jaws, and I actually see Rosie flinch a little and pull the box back like she’s afraid she might wind up with nothing but a bloody stump where her hand was. She’s right to worry about that, too, but not for the reason she thinks.
“No, thanks,” Tall manages to grate out, and I can just see Mary shaking her head at the edge of my screen—this camera’s got great peripherals. “We’re actually here to talk to you about those cookies, ma’am.”
She sets the box down, though they’re still tantalizingly within reach, and nods. “I’d figured,” she says, rocking in her chair a little, and I half expect her to produce a pile of knitting from somewhere. “After all, that’s what we do here.” The smile she gives them is pleased as punch, and under normal circumstances I can understand why. She makes CampGirl cookies. That’s like being the guy in charge of producing all the Easter eggs, or being the head elf at Santa’s workshop. She’s practically the Willy Wonka of the cookie industry! “So, what do y’all need to know?”
Mary leans forward—I’m guessing she’s realized, just as I have, that Tall’s using all his willpower not to start breaking things from the sight of that cookie box. “You recently changed your cookie recipe,” she states. “We wish to know what the alteration is, and who authorized it, and who supplies you with the new ingredients.”
But Rosie’s frowning now. “Oh, no, dear,” she says. “We haven’t altered our cookie recipes in over forty years. The packaging’s changed some”—she gestures behind her, and I can see well enough from this angle to realize that what looked like a series of small framed collages is actually a row of framed cookie boxes. It’s the ChocoMint box, and I recognize the ones I’ve been chowing down from lately, the ones I used to swipe off kids when I was in college, and the ones my sisters used to bring home when I was a kid. She’s got the entire history of the ChocoMint box there on her wall. That’s actually pretty cool.
She’s currently sighing, though. “We did have to alter the size a little bit,” she says, and it’s obvious she isn’t happy about that, unless she’s a damn good actor. “The cost of flour, sugar, everything has gone up. We had to change the packaging so the boxes didn’t hold quite so many cookies anymore, and make the cookies themselves a little smaller, in order to survive. I’ve got lots of mouths to feed here, y’know.” She shakes her head. “But the recipe, no, that’s the same as it’s always been.”
Tall leans forward. “Ma’am, that’s just not true.” He growls it out a bit, but he’s calmed down some already, so I don’t think she’s in immediate danger. “This year’s cookies are having dangerous effects on people. Something’s been done to them, and we need to know what that is if we’re going to have any chance of correcting it.”
“Nonsense!” She’s got that whole indignant-old-lady thing going on now, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she produced a ruler and thwacked Tall across the knuckles with it. “I’m telling you, these are the same cookies we’ve always made! And I certainly haven’t had any complaints from any of the troops, or heard anything personally from any parents or their children.” She peers at Tall, a little of her laidback attitude gone. “Which agency did y’all say you worked for again?”
“Have you tried the recent batch of cookies yourself?” Mary asks, countering her question. Nice one, babe! But Rosie shakes her head.
“I’m diabetic, I’m afraid,” she says, and laughs—a slightly bitter laugh, to my ears. And I know a lot about bitter laughter—try spending a few years having to pretend every duck joke in the world is hilarious and you’ll understand why. “I know, it’s funny, the head of a cookie factory and I can’t eat cookies myself.”
I feel for the lady, I do. Imagine being surrounded by yummy food day after day and not being able to eat any of it. The closest I’ve come to that is working fast food in high school, smelling the fries and burgers and shakes constantly but only being able to scarf some down on my breaks. Of course, I took a lot of breaks. Pretty much one an hour, actually. Which is probably why, after two weeks, instead of a paycheck I got a termination notice and a bill.
That doesn’t help us here, though. The one person who could tell us what’s going on, and she claims she doesn’t know—and there’s no way we can prove to her that the cookies taste funny or affect people oddly, because she might keel over dead as a result.
But she’s not the only person around, I realize.
“Tall,” I say into the mic. “The one at the front desk—Kelly—when she called up here, she didn’t talk to the head honcho directly. There was a secretary or something. She’s gotta be nearby.”
“Yeah? So what?” Wow, he’s good—he’s got the whole subvocalizing thing down cold! Must be from playing with mics like this on covert ops, or maybe it’s just from swallowing half his snide comments, but I can hear his rumbling loud and clear even though it’s obvious from her face that Rosie didn’t at all.
“So,” I tell him, “I bet her secretary isn’t diabetic.”
There’s a pause, and I wish I had a mirror because I’m betting I’d see Stare No. Six right now. Especially since the next thing he says to Rosie is, “You have an executive secretary, don’t you, ma’am?”
She nods, though I can see she has no idea where this is going. “Yes, of course. Wendy is right next door. Why?”
“Could you ask her to come in here, please?” Tall’s showing admirable restraint. He sounds perfectly calm and professional, if you ignore the faint bass growl below his words. It’s like watching the Beast, the Disney version, only he’s got a black suit on and he’s talking bureaucrat-ese.
I don’t know if she’s scared of him or just curious, but Rosie complies. “Wendy!” she calls out, and a second later the office door opens and a woman sticks her head in.
“Yes, ma’am?” Wendy’s not bad-looking, curvy edging toward plump with a nice face and long, curly black hair. She’s not as good at hiding dislike as Kelly was, and I see the daggers come out as her eyes rake across Mary. There’s nothing but curiosity and maybe a little admiration as they study Tall. I can still drink him under the table, though.
“Could you come in here, please, ma’am?” Tall asks her, and after a quick glance at Rosie she complies. She steps in and approaches them, then sits on the other couch after a gesture from Tall. “We just need your help with something.” He reaches for the cookie box but stops and balls his hand into a fist, which he then plants slowly and deliberately on the coffee table. That had to take a helluva lot of control! I could tell he just wanted to smash the thing to pieces instead. “Would you please have a cookie?”
Now Wendy’s looking completely baffled, and I don’t blame her. Her boss calls for her, and when she comes in there’s this stunning woman and this rugged guy in a suit, and they want her to eat cookies? That’s gotta be like the weirdest kink ever. But it’s harmless enough, and Rosie’s nodding for her to play along, so Wendy takes the box, extracts a ChocoMint, and takes a dainty bite.
Almost instantly we see her eyes glaze over. She sits up a little straighter and finishes the cookie, then goes for the box again, but Tall gets there first. He doesn’t bother to be nice about it, though—instead his arm lashes out and the box goes flying, crumpled by the force of his hand slapping into it.
“Mind your manners, young man!” Rosie snaps at him, but a look from Tall sh
ushes her.
“Wendy, can you hear me?” Tall asks. “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” the secretary answers. “I feel fine. Can I have another cookie?” Yep, definite cookie-zombie. I recognize all the signs.
“Maybe in a minute.” Tall turns back to Rosie. “This is what your cookies are doing to people,” he accuses. “Go on, tell her to do something. Something she wouldn’t normally do.”
“What? Oh, I . . . .” Rosie wrings her hands together, staring at her secretary, who just sits there on the couch, looking straight ahead. “I wouldn’t—”
Mary’s apparently tired of waiting. “Wendy,” she says, “stand up.” Wendy stands at once. “Hop on your right foot.” Wendy lifts her left leg at the knee and starts hopping. “Now bawk like a chicken.” Wendy starts bawking, still hopping, and still staring straight ahead. “Stand perfectly quiet and still.” Wendy becomes a statue. “This is what the cookies do,” Mary informs Rosie, who’s been gawking at her secretary through the whole command performance. “We have come to you to discover how and why.”
“I don’t know,” Rosie tells her, and the poor lady looks like she’s close to tears. I hate seeing grandmas cry. Especially since, whenever mine did, it usually meant she was gonna go for her gun next. “We haven’t changed the recipes, I tell you!”
Tall stands up—suddenly Rosie and Mary and even Wendy who’s standing look like ants to me—and stalks over to the window, the inner one that looks out on the factory floor. “Maybe the recipe’s the same,” he states after a second, “but something new’s been added. And if you didn’t authorize it, it’s going on behind your back.”
Rosie stands now as well, and closes the distance to Tall. “Well, if someone’s been messing with my cookies,” she declares, “I want to know who! We pride ourselves on the quality of our cookies, and I’m not about to let someone ruin that for us!” Yeah, good for you, Grandma, I cheer in my head. You go out there and break a few heads!
I’m guessing Tall’s impressed with her gumption, too, because his voice isn’t quite as gruff when he responds. “We’re happy to have the help,” he tells her. “Where should we start?”
“The mixing room,” Rosie replies at once. “Since it’s not the recipe that’s at fault, it’s gotta be added right at the source.” She reaches for the door, but stops and looks back at Wendy, who’s still doing her best impression of a monument. “What about her? Will this wear off?”
“I don’t know,” Tall admits. “But we can fix it.” He nods to Mary, who’s on her feet as well but still standing beside the couch—and besides Wendy.
“Wendy,” Mary says to the other woman. “Snap out of it.”
It’s still just as creepy watching the zombie effect fade as it is seeing it appear. It’s like the dawn spreading across the sky, only this dawn is the light of self-awareness and self-control. And as it filters through her eyes and her face I see Wendy go from perfectly stoic to confused and a little frightened. “What happened?” she asks. “I was sitting down a second ago.”
“You are unharmed,” Mary assures her. “Your mind must have wandered.” Yeah, to Peoria and back, I think, with maybe a little pause to gawk at Albuquerque, but Wendy nods absently and looks a little reassured. Oh, to be that easily convinced! I’ve always been too skeptical for my own good—or at least so I’ve been told, but I’m not sure I believe it.
I do notice, though, that Mary surreptitiously slides that box of cookies behind her back, and then drops them in the trashcan on the far side of the couch. Smart move—if Tall’s any indication, whatever’s in those cookies definitely leaves you wanting more, and we don’t need Wendy going zombie on us again the minute we walk away.
“Hey,” I think to ask Tall then, “what about just checking the security tapes? Since we know whatever’s going on is happening in the mixing room, can’t you just scan the footage from a few months back and peg whoever’s doing it from the comfort of Rosie’s office?” Well away from all those cookies, I add in my head.
But Tall shakes his head. “Wouldn’t work,” he replies under his breath. “If somebody’s just been adding this mystery ingredient on the sly, how would we be able to tell from a tape? They’d just look like they were doing their job. Besides”—and now he sounds slightly disgusted, and even a little personally offended—“the security here is a joke. The cameras I saw on our way up are practically antiques, with crap for zoom or fine detail. We’d be able to make out blurry images and not a whole lot more.”
“Ah. Right.” Damn. I was really hoping to keep him off the factory floor if possible. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” he assures me. “It was a good thought.” And he doesn’t even sound like he’s kidding. “Let’s go,” he urges the others, now back to full barking-out-loud mode, and Rosie only glances back at her secretary once more before nodding and opening the door. She leads Tall and Mary out, and of course I’m with them like a silent ghost as we all traipse back down the stairs. I’m a little worried, though. Tall managed to restrain himself in the office, but that was just one box of cookies. We’re about to go out onto the factory floor, where CampGirl cookies’ll literally surround us, thousands of them as far as the eye can see. For most people, me included, that’d be just one step shy of heaven—no dancing girls or alcohol. But for Tall those cookies are now on par with the devil. And I’m not sure even his MiB willpower is going to be enough to keep him from going berserk with the enemy closing in on ever side.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mixing it up
Okay, it’s official. When I die, I want to wake up in a cookie factory. Or at least a cross between a cookie factory and a strip club. But this place is flat-out awesome!
We come down the stairs—I really feel like I’m there, like this is the best VR tour ever because the picture’s so clear and I can hear everything and I’ve got the lights dimmed in my living room and my feet up and I’m comfy in my ergonomic desk chair, all I need are wraparound goggles with speakers by each ear and I could let my imagination fill in the scents and textures and I’d pretty much be Johnny-on-the-Spot—and the whole factory is spread out before us. Like I said, one big open space. And all of it, and everybody there, is all about one thing, and one thing only—
—making cookies.
You remember how it smelled when your mom made cookies at home when you were a kid? Okay, with my mom that involved Pop’n’Fresh and the microwave and a beer, but my grandma actually made them from scratch, grumbling to herself in Polish the whole time and the way the whole kitchen was filled with warmth and that rich, sweet, salty smell of cookie dough and fresh-baked cookies—yeah. That’s pretty much my definition of security and affection at home.
And you know how a garage—a proper mechanic’s garage, not some creepy parking garage with mould all over the walls and standing water in the corners—has a certain smell to it too, all grease and motor oil and electricity, kinda dirty and grimy but in a good way, a way that says “I’m fixing something here, doing real work with real tools and when I’m done this car’s gonna fly like a rocket and look like a movie star”?
Well, take those two memories and mush ’em together. Because that’s what Alphabet Bakery looks like to me, and I’m willing to bet that’s what it smells like, too—it’s got hot, fresh cookies and all the ingredients individually, mixed in with the smell of machinery and hard work, and all bound together by bright lights and cheerful music and that hubbub of easy chatter that says either the boss is gone for the week or you’re lucky enough to work in one of those places where they really don’t mind you gabbing with your mates as long as you’re getting the work done.
It’s amazing.
I can tell Mary thinks so, too, because at the landing halfway down the stairs she stops to take it all in and says softly, “What a beautiful juxtaposition of the comfort of sweets and the productivity of a well-run workplace!” That’s my girl.
Tall, however, just grunts. “Too loud, too bright, and
it smells like yeast,” he grumbles as he moves past her, practically stomping on the backs of Rosie’s feet in his hurry to reach the ground floor. Well, the whole cookie thing’s getting to him, of course, so it’s understandable if he’s even testier than usual—and his usual level of “testy” would beat out a whole high school at SAT time.
Rosie, bless her, completely ignores his complaints but does take the time to turn and beam at Mary. “I think so too, dear,” she says proudly. “We all love what we do here, and I think it shows!”
“Well, somebody here loves turning people into brainless automatons,” Tall snaps, cutting off her happiness midstream. “So let’s focus on that, okay?”
The look she gives him, I remember it myself from the few times any of us ever dared to interrupt Grandma during one of her stories. It’s the “if you weren’t my own flesh and blood I’d carve you up like a prize steer and turn you into blood sausage and tripes” look, and I shiver just getting it secondhand. I have no idea if it fazes Tall at all.
Too Small For Tall Page 14