Two of Cushing’s agents approached. “Please excuse me one moment, Miss Keyes.” Cushing turned to the agents. “What have you found?”
“Nothing, ma’am.” The speaker was the unfortunate Jeff, the latecomer to the staff meeting, accompanied by Agent Trujillo of the REI backpack investigation. “There’s evidence that she’s been in the home as recently as a few hours ago, but she is not there now.”
Zander and I hadn’t exactly cleaned up after we’d eaten—I imagined the scraps of food on our plates pointed to “as recently as a few hours ago.”
“Computer?”
“Not in the house. She has a laptop—we found a power cord—but it’s gone.”
“Have the cyber people look up her IP address and dig into her online activity.”
“They are already on it, ma’am.”
“Car?”
“In the garage.”
“So she’s on foot.”
“We’ve established a perimeter and a sweep of the neighborhood.”
“Very well. You know what to bag from the house.”
She dismissed Jeff and Trujillo and turned back to Genie. My sister did not like to be kept waiting. She was positively vibrating with impatience.
“Have you seen Gemma since you’ve been in town, Miss Keyes?”
“No. I arrived last evening and came over this morning, but she wasn’t home. She doesn’t, um, answer her phone when I call.”
“Why is that, Miss Keyes?”
Genie’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure I can’t speak for her, General.” She raised her chin. “I only came to town because I haven’t been able to reach Gemma for some time, and her neighbor, Mrs. Calderón, hasn’t seen her for weeks. Mrs. Calderón might have more information than I do.”
Genie pointed at Abe’s house. “Oh, and Gemma is friends with the old man who lives across the street.”
Thanks, sis.
After that Cushing’s team organized themselves to interview all the neighbors. I managed to drag my spent body to the curb where the impromptu interviews were taking place.
Abe stuck with the response Zander had suggested. “I ain’t actually seen Miss Gemma for weeks now,” he told a male agent with wide-eyed simplicity. “Why, I ringed her doorbell, and she wouldn’t even open—jes’ talked through the door, she did. She was sick. Nasty cold and all.”
“And you haven’t seen Miss Keyes since around September 15?”
Abe scratched his nose absently. “I ain’t got a date in mind,” he muttered, “but tha’ sounds ’bout right.”
For an educated, well-read man, Abe’s intelligence had declined significantly. I might have laughed, but I was shaking too hard, the ill effects of the mites’ assault reaching deep into my bones.
“And you haven’t talked to her since?” the agent prodded.
Abe tucked his chin to his chest, thinking, and I drew in my breath. I knew he wouldn’t lie.
“Well,” he said, “Truth is, she hain’t called me in weeks.”
The agent nodded and turned to Zander. “What about you? How well do you know Ms. Keyes and when did you last see her?”
Zander answered the questions dispassionately, almost carelessly. “I’m an associate pastor at Downtown Community Church. Abe, here, attends DCC, too. He asked me to introduce myself to Miss Keyes, so I did. I don’t know her well, but she attended our church as a child. Haven’t seen her, though, in several weeks. Haven’t spoken on the phone, either.”
Breathe, I told myself.
Mateo, arms folded, stonewalled the agent interviewing him. “Don’t know the woman. Don’t care,” was the extent of his comments.
“Are you certain?” the female team member persisted.
“Which part of ‘I don’t know the woman’ do you not get?” Mateo snarled. The agent backed away.
And I was very proud of Emilio’s responses.
“I don’t know the lady real well,” he offered, suddenly a little shy, “but she was nice to me. No, I ain’t seen her. Maybe she moved or something?”
Since everything I intended to take with me was already sitting in bags in Abe’s guest room, I guess I had already moved. Or something.
During those interviews, Genie leaned against her high-end rental car cataloging the proceedings. Her conversation with Cushing still rang in my ears, but I did not underestimate my sister’s willingness to assist Cushing in her search for me—if, at some point, Genie decided that her cooperation would further or complement her own objectives.
I was beat. I collapsed on a big landscaping rock in my front yard. While I kept one eye on Genie, I listened to Cushing calmly issuing orders to her team. As “in control” as the general managed to sound, the rigid set to her back and the edgy, too-careful responses of her team told me how frustrated she really was.
I studied Mrs. Calderón, who, from behind a barrier of yellow tape, held lively court with two agents. They eventually came and reported to Cushing.
“The next-door neighbor tells us, and I quote, ‘I haven’t seen Gemma Keyes in weeks, even though I know she is in there. She ignores me and she will not open the door when I knock and ring the bell. She is very rude,’ end quote.”
The agent cleared his throat. “The woman is positive that Keyes was living in the home as recently as today. She insists that Keyes was in the habit of going out when no one was noticing because,” he consulted his notebook, “and again I quote: ‘Gemma drives around at night, and I know she does because the car isn’t parked in exactly the same spot in the garage every day. I know (the neighbor asserts), because I check.’”
Cushing pursed her lips and the agent cleared his throat. “This neighbor adds, ‘Gemma picks the mail up after dark, and she puts the garbage out during the night before collection day and puts the can back the night after.’”
Cushing arched one eyebrow. “Who is this exceedingly observant woman?”
The agent pointed. Mrs. Calderón, from the sidewalk in front of her house, her red wig slightly askew, drew her mouth into a wide smile and waggled her fingers at Cushing in coy greeting. Cushing’s plump lips parted and she returned the smile, her sharp white teeth gleaming in the artificial light, her black eyes fixing my neighbor like a collector would fix a bug with a pin.
Mrs. Calderón’s smile faltered and her waggling fingers sank to her side. She backed away and waddled up the walk to her house.
“Interesting,” Cushing murmured.
I swallowed, horrified at the level of detail Mrs. Calderón had collected and reported—not just to Genie but now to Cushing. Even as her team bustled around her, Cushing tapped one finger on her chin, her eyes focused elsewhere.
It made me nervous. It scared me.
She’s thinking, putting things together.
I reviewed what Genie had said to Cushing. What the two agents had reported to her. What my friends and neighbors had told her people.
I didn’t like where it all pointed.
Ain’t actually seen Miss Gemma for weeks now . . . No, I ain’t seen her . . . I haven’t seen Gemma in weeks, even though I know she is in there. She ignores me and will not open the door when I knock and ring the bell . . . she picks the mail up after dark and she puts the garbage out during the night before collection day and puts the can back the night after . . . .
From the beginning, my greatest advantage had been that Cushing did not know where the mites had gone or what they had done to me. My invisibility had been an incredible defense against Cushing.
I felt Nick Holloway’s angst creeping up my spine.
Cushing’s people packed up the spotlights and left quite late that night. Her team had trashed my home, taken away a lot of stuff in large sacks, and plastered yellow “Do Not Enter” tape over my doors. The neighbors gradually dispersed, too.
I was relieved to see them all go.
I staggered back to Abe’s. I needed to get my things and say goodbye, but I was exhausted.
I found Emilio shivering on the curb.
“What are you doing out here?” I scolded gently.
“Wanted to say g’bye ’fore you go,” he chattered.
“Come on.” I took him by the hand and led him into Abe’s house.
“I found Emilio on the curb.” That’s all I said. Emilio’s shivering said the rest. Zander glanced at Abe.
Abe nodded resolutely and put his hand out. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, but I’m Abe.”
“Yeah, man. I know.”
“And you are?” Abe kept his hand out.
I nudged Emilio. “Shake his hand, please. Tell him your name.”
Emilio looked down but shook Abe’s hand. “Emilio Martinez,” he answered in a low voice.
“Well, Emilio, you look cold. Would you like a hot bath? Some hot chocolate?”
Emilio shrugged. I nudged him again.
“He’s asked you two questions. Don’t you think you should answer?”
Emilio sighed. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Yes, please,” I insisted.
He sighed again. “Yes, please.”
“Got a bed for the night, Emilio?”
Emilio shook his head.
“Right. Well, it’s sure too cold to be sleeping outside, so we’ll get you fixed up. Come with me and tell me if you think this bedroom will work for you.”
“I should, um, get my things out of the room first,” I suggested. I followed Abe as he ushered Emilio down the hall. I grabbed my three bags and left Abe and Emilio looking over what I hoped would be Emilio’s new bedroom.
God willing.
I made a face and dragged my things into the living room. Zander was quiet and so was I. We listened to water running in the bath until Abe reappeared.
“You got him to take a bath?” I was surprised. Amazed, even.
“No kid can resist a bubble bath,” he chuckled.
“Didn’t know you stocked it, Abe,” I teased.
He smiled. “It was Alice’s. Has to be near-on to twenty years old, but it still made bubbles when I poured it under the tap. Smelled good, too. I forgot how good.” He moved toward the kitchen. “Need to fix that boy some vittles. He peeled off his shirt and I thought his ribs were goin’ to jump through his skin.”
A fresher, cleaner Emilio eventually wandered into the living room wearing one of Abe’s t-shirts. It covered Emilio’s knees—and his ribs.
“Here, boy. Got you some food.” Abe pointed to a plate on the table.
Emilio lost no time cleaning the plate of its contents. Then Abe asked him to climb into bed.
“You got school t’morrow?”
“Yeah.”
Abe grimaced and then took a breath. “I’d appreciate it, young sir, if you would answer my questions with ‘yes, sir,’ or ‘no, sir.’ Can you do that?”
Emilio dithered and studied the pattern in the old carpet under his feet.
This is it, I thought. Make or break time for this child and his future with Abe.
The moment stretched out, but finally Emilio looked up. “Yes. Yes, sir.”
I think Abe, Zander, and I all smiled at the same time.
Well done, Emilio, I cheered.
“May I tuck him in?”
The words jumped out of my mouth without thought, but Emilio looked toward me with an eagerness that surprised me.
“Sure. If that’s what he’d like.”
“Yeah! I mean, yes, sir.”
I took the boy’s hand and led him into the room. I sat on the bed and bounced a little. “What do you think? You like the bed? Will you be warm enough?”
“Yeah. It’s big, too.”
I tucked him in and sat on the edge next to him. “I’m not leaving Albuquerque, at least not just yet. I have a place where I’ll be safe for a while. I’ll keep in touch with you. You and Abe and Zander.”
“You gonna be okay?” He sounded a little anxious.
“Yes. I’ll be all right. How about you? Will you be all right?”
He thought a moment. “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”
I stayed a while, Emilio’s hand nestled in mine, until his even breathing told me he’d slipped off to sleep.
When I returned to the living room, Abe asked me to sit down. “See here, Gemma. Why can’t you stay in my house, with Emilio and me, ’stead of runnin’ off to this other place you got in mind?”
Zander nodded. They’d been talking and agreed on Abe’s offer.
“I would love to, Abe, but I should be clear with you.” I took a minute to frame my thoughts. “See, Cushing has no moral qualms. None at all. She wants the nanomites and will do whatever she needs to do to get them.”
I wished the two of them could have seen my eyes, seen the concern in them. “The people I-I care about are just leverage as far as she is concerned—perfectly expendable leverage. Yes, I might ‘hide out’ here for a while, but if she even suspected the strong ties we have? She would take you away. Emilio, too. Whether you could help her or not, she would take all of you—and who would stop her? Who could? I can’t have that. I won’t. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Sobered, they nodded.
“You will be safer if I am somewhere else and if you possess what they call ‘plausible deniability’ when it comes to my whereabouts and activities.”
Zander, Abe, and I spoke for only a few minutes afterward, and Zander helped me put the bags on again. He and I laughed together as Abe, with wide eyes, watched Uncle Eddy’s shirt settle over my body and “disappear” the bags slung across my chest.
“I have the bare necessities with me, and I’ll be in touch,” I assured them. I looked at Zander. “I will find a way for us to communicate. Not often, but something safe.”
“But where are you going, Gemma? Tonight, I mean.” He was frowning, unhappy and worried with my decision to leave.
“I told you. I have a place. It’s safe. For now.”
That was all I told either of them, Dear Reader. I had already placed them in more danger than I cared to dwell on. I would not give them information for Cushing to crush out of them.
Abe held out his arms. “Can this old man get a hug?”
I let him hug me and I hugged him back. Then I collapsed in his arms, sobbing. “Thank you. For Emilio,” I sniffed. “For Jake.”
Zander put his arms around both of us. “I’ll be praying for you, Gemma.”
“Thank you.”
I straightened under my load and walked away.
Chapter 25
I tore the tape from the side door of my house and slipped inside. I purposely hadn’t said anything to Abe or Zander, but I was too worn to go another step.
Besides, I figured of all the places in Albuquerque, my house was probably the safest place for me for one night. In the morning, I would covertly board a city bus and get off within a few blocks of the safe house.
I pulled the laptop out from under my shirt, set it on the table, and staged my baggage near it. Before I left in the morning I would, at last, format my hard drive, pull it from the laptop, bash it to bits, and leave the pieces for Cushing as the gesture I hoped she would take it for: In your sharky face, General Cushing, ma’am.
I didn’t turn on any lights, just wandered into the living room. I kicked at the trash that Cushing’s team had made of my things and collapsed into my corner on the sofa. I wanted a few moments to say goodbye to my house and my memories of Aunt Lu.
I must have dozed off for a while but then I awoke, alert, my mind churning. I was doing that thing again, sitting alone in the dark, “figuring things out”—and coming to terms with the fact that my life as Gemma Keyes was over. Nothing would ever again be “normal” for me.
Maybe there isn’t an answer for you, a voice suggested, but I recognized my old friend, hopelessness, raising his nasty head.
I squashed him. My life might be drastically different now, but it was far from hopeless and far from over. I had options. And friends.
I have friends, I repeated, people
who love me.
I would “figure it out” as I went along, just as I always did.
Something rustled nearby. Jake’s green eyes glowed through the dark as he stared toward me.
“Came to say goodbye, too, did you?” I whispered.
He didn’t blink, but just stared. After a moment he yawned, a big, full, fang-exposing yawn. Then he shook himself.
“Gee, thanks. I’ll miss you, too.”
He hissed and trotted away. I heard the cat door snick as Jake pushed through it.
Goodbye, Jake.
My thoughts turned to Zander. Earlier today, Zander had spoken things that pierced my toughened skin. Things that made me uncomfortable with myself and with many of my actions.
Have I been so self-absorbed, so concerned with Genie and what she did to me that I’ve never examined my own actions—my own life—in the same light?
And Zander’s words challenged decisions I’d made as a girl because of my bad experience in church. He’d talked about things I’d given up on.
Things . . . that needed careful reconsideration.
Transformation, he’d said.
The nanocloud had certainly transformed me, but that wasn’t the transformation Zander had meant. A transformation of the heart and soul, he’d said. It’s about letting God peel off the old, ugly, scarred man and letting him give you a new life, a life Jesus died to give you.
I sighed, not convinced, and dragged myself from the sofa to a chair at the table. I booted up my laptop and commenced to update this, Dear Reader, my written account—the single document on my laptop’s hard drive—and the sole reason my laptop had to be destroyed.
Deleting the file and reformatting the disk could not wholly erase the file. Destroying the hard drive was the only way to keep my account from Cushing’s prying eyes.
I didn’t need to demolish my external hard drive—it contained nothing Cushing could use against me or to find me—but I dared leave no trace of this file—my complete and up-to-date account—where her people could find its bits and bytes and reconstruct it.
I will, after I update this record, save a copy of the file to a flash drive and take it with me. Then I will delete the file on my laptop, empty the recycle bin, and smash the hard disk.
Stealthy Steps Page 35