She smiled and it was a great relief. She even held up her drink to his, the unification of glass clinking brightly in the restaurant. “To us,” she said.
“To us.”
Clara licked her lips after taking a drink. She complimented the wine, and then leaned back into her chair. She seemed much more settled now, despite their possibly unsettled future. D.C., New Orleans . . . What mattered most was that they were here, now, together. And so after the tense opening, each of them relaxed over wine and menu deliberations. Sam made what he thought was a very obvious and unforced compliment about her dress, as well as her restaurant selection. Although he hadn’t even tried the food yet, the dark ambiance had already seduced more than one of his senses. So typical of New Orleans. He’d miss the hell out of places like this. D.C., in contrast, seemed ever the more plastic and fake. Everything there seemed to have an ulterior motive. Lies to be deciphered.
“So how’s the quitting going?” he asked.
“Smoking?”
He nodded. “Did you light up today?”
“Nope,” she said, pulling her right hand off the table and hiding it in her lap. The move spoke volumes.
“I know how hard it is. Took me years, off and on.”
Clara frowned and said, “It sucks so much. Doesn’t it? I hate it.”
Sam nodded, trying not to stare at her so intently, trying not to let on that he knew she was lying. “It’s a process,” he said. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
It wasn’t always particularly wise to explain everything about his unique powers—especially on a date. He’d already let one relationship get ruined by the paranoia that his abilities could generate, warranted or not. It would take a strong, confident—and above all else—honest woman to live with it. He knew it was tough. After all, it wouldn’t be much fun for anyone, living with a human lie detector.
Besides, honest people were hard to come by. Perhaps he could settle for mostly honest. He could settle for a 99% Clara, especially if it was just about smoking.
“I like that,” Clara said. “It’s a process.”
“Absolutely. One step at a time.”
“I’m all for taking things slow,” she said, her fingers gliding up her wine stem. “Especially, you know, if it’s the right thing.”
2
Clara
They took their dessert to a park bench away from the crowds and the glowing amber of street lamps. There, under the cozy darkness of a cypress tree, their bodies moved in with an instinctual magnetism. Animal magnetism. Sam had what someone less distracted might call the right match of pheromones, but in the moment all she cared about was the scent of cypress wood, alcohol, and him. It was intoxicating. She needed to get closer to it. First was his chest, her head resting on it, finding it a little more immense than she’d expected. Sam tended to wear a button-down shirt and jacket, sometimes even with a waistcoat, and she was surprised at the muscled mass of him underneath an unbuttoned and spread sports jacket.
God, it was so wretchedly bittersweet. The magnetism, the attraction, was immediate and easy, and, it seemed, deliciously available. The sadness, however, was of a deferred variety. An extended unanswered question. It hung over them, even as they sat on the park bench, the wings of an albatross hovering over them dark like the cypress: their uncertainties and worries about the future. Possibly their future. Or not. Sure, the feel of his unflexed bicep under her hand was warm and sexy and all . . . Well, no, it was pretty fucking amazing—like the rest of him, outside and in. But what about the questions? Those damn questions . . . What could silence those?
For the time being, it was Sam’s lips. His hand had gone from her neck to underneath her jaw, lifting her face to greet his. Smiling, and then not smiling, and then touching softly there, his late-day stubble scratching a little on her cheek. And their kiss, the shared taste of restaurant breath mints, the shared exuberance of tongues. The connection of their mouths, just like everything else about this surprising connection, had grown hot and unwieldy and so impulsive. So strange that she’d fallen this way, drawn happily into quicksand, into the unknown. And already, on that first real date, on the bench and on each other, already she’d felt the possibility of being ruined in some way—only she wasn’t sure if it was the good or bad type. All Clara knew was that she wanted it decided.
Clara turned off the radio and drove the rest of the way from downtown to the suburbs in silence. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. A good problem to have. It was like an almost trance-like meditation on her man, her funny, sensitive, sexy Sam. It had been going so well. The date especially, to cap it off. The date. Hell yes, it was a date. She’d wanted that so badly. It had been declared like the victorious finding in one of her court cases, outright and unquestionably. And then, the kiss outside on their park bench. It made her feel warm again, reliving it, the way he kissed her so deeply. It made her feel at least eight years younger—and not at all like a parent of an eight-year-old. And for that, Clara was almost tempted to feel guilty. She rarely took nights off for herself, time and energy away from Molly, who had been so central to everything. But it was at the insistence of her friends—especially the one watching her daughter tonight, a friend, Bren, who had facilitated this whole thing. According to her, it was time to branch out and reclaim some personal time. A personal, extracurricular life. Fun. Was that the kind of fun that Bren had in mind? Park-bench fun?
“So how was it?”
Clara found Bren stretched out on the sofa with the remote in one hand and a wine glass in the other. It seemed she’d been having her own fun night, helping herself to a glass of chardonnay. Knowing Molly’s usual routine with babysitters, she might have earned it. Maybe even the whole bottle.
“Is Molly sleeping?” Clara dropped her coat, bag, and take-home box in a clump on the kitchen table.
“Yeah. So come on, tell me.”
“Was she okay? I hope she wasn’t too horrible.”
“Clara, come on, tell me all about it.”
She stood there for a moment, trying not to smile like a crazy person. But she slipped up, and a little giggle escaped out into the living room. She was instantly embarrassed at how fifteen she sounded.
“Clara,” Bren said teasingly. “Oh, my God.”
“I know.”
“It was that good?”
“It was hardly anything,” Clara said, trying to regain some composure as she sat on the sofa’s armrest. “We just had dinner, but . . .” She laughed, turning away from her friend and saying, “Oh, my God. I’m in trouble.”
“Oh, my God. Is he coming to your poetry reading?”
“No . . . Well, I don’t think so. But how was Molly, though? Was she really okay?”
“She was perfect.”
“Perfect?”
Bren smiled. “She might still be awake.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it.”
The faint sound of Bren’s laughter faded as Clara padded down the hall. She stuck her head through the doorway of Molly’s lair, looking in the slightly messy room, its walls filled with glowing rotating stars. The light machine was first used to ward off bad dreams. Now Molly just thought it was cool—or so she said. Clara would usually turn it off after an hour or so, but this time Molly was awake. Her little feet were kicking around in the blankets, and then out from that warm little jumble came a little, meek, tired voice, “Mommy?”
Clara crept over to her and knelt by her bed. “Hey, Sweetie.”
“What time is it?” Molly rolled over and scratched at her face.
Clara gripped at her tiny wrists, pulled one hand away, and looked at her sweet, sleep-deprived goblin. “Did you get any sleep yet?”
She nodded.
“You sure?” Clara asked softly. “You had a dream?” Molly’s hands went back to her face, rubbing her eyes. “I just came in to say goodnight, okay? Give me a kiss?”
Molly kept her head flush back on the pillow. “I think I had a good dream.”
�
��So did I.” Clara leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
3
Sam
Although stepping onto the neatly manicured grounds of a college campus brought back some unpleasant memories of work and of D.C., Sam was surprised to feel an overriding sense of freedom. A relief that he wasn’t the one stuck working there. That role fell onto his old college friend, David Allen, now law professor at Gulf A&M. All these students surrounding Sam were David’s problem. And a problem they were, indeed. Sam could hear it a half mile away, the dull crowd noise that became roaring chants as Sam approached. As he stepped into the center courtyard, distinct words emerged like “patriarchy” and “hate speech,” and then a little sing-song about white cis-gendered fascism and other cheery jingles to that effect. Sam knew them all. His own campus back in D.C. had been inundated by these same warriors for social justice. The group at George Washington University seemed no different, hundreds of them, right down to the thick-framed glasses, Che Guevara t-shirts and gray-blue hair. Here they had amassed themselves into a human chain, linking arms and blocking the wide center stairway for the campus library. Students would have to walk around to the side entrance. Somehow this made for a more fair, just university.
Sam walked in the other direction, moving quite happily away from the demonstration and toward a cluster of law buildings at the edge of the campus. He walked into the older-looking one, a four-story red-brick lined with ivy. And inside, thankful for the quiet, Sam looked up the directory placard and followed its directions to room 212. He knocked three times on the cracked-open door, his other hand holding the handle so that it wouldn’t shut by the force of his greeting. That greeting’s answer came in the form of a grumpy professor, his voice muffled into some book or another. “And could you please shut that door?” he said nasally. “Office hours just ended.”
Sam knew the feeling. Those fleeting moments of privacy and quiet, of anything but the questions, demands, and sometimes the tears of students. He was a little surprised no one had followed and tracked him down across the country. Yet. Forget his email. He hadn’t checked his school account in over a week. Maybe he’d never check it again.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” Sam said in his best meek student voice through the crack in the door.
“Then don’t.”
Sam held back a laugh. “But sir, it’s rather important.” He took a breath and summoned up his best pathetic tone. “My mom is here with me and—”
“Who the hell is it?” David sounded angry now.
Sam opened the door and grinned at his old friend. The professor was, as he imagined, hunched over his desk, a pencil stuck into his thick hair, with that look of squint-eyed annoyance at yet another intrusion.
“Sam?” The annoyance flashed away and he was standing and smiling. The expression looked a little strange on his face, as if anything but a scowl didn’t fit. “Sam,” he said again, marching over and shaking his hand, pulling him into a back-thumping hug. “What the hell’s going on? What are you doing here?”
“I came to extend your office hours.”
David laughed. “No thanks.” He moved quickly, shutting the door behind them.
“You look good, Dave.”
“Thanks,” Dave said, rolling his eyes.
“Can’t believe you’re not bald yet.”
Dave frowned. He tipped his head forward so that the pencil fell out into his hand. “You know I have that love-hate relationship with stress. I hate it. And it just loves me to death.”
“That’s how I feel about my school.” Sam took a seat opposite the law professor. “I’m currently on the run.”
“Playing hooky? Why New Orleans?”
“It started out as a work trip. My other job.”
Dave flashed him a confused look.
“Just some private detective stuff on the side,” Sam side. “But, uh, to be honest, I’m getting stick of the whole thing. Even coming here was sort of traumatizing.”
“You didn’t get savaged by the mob out there, right? They’ve been at it since 9 a.m.”
“No. I got savaged back at GW. So I’ve learned my lesson. There’s no debating with . . . them.”
“Us and them, huh?”
Sam sighed and said, “I don’t know, Dave. The country’s really gone to shit. And it’s not even about the people. It’s the . . . the whole . . .”
“Sounds like you’re dissatisfied with the pillars of our society. The schools, the government.” He chuckled a little. “The money?”
“Well, that’s just it. I’m getting paid well enough with my side job that I can probably quit teaching.”
“So you’re a private detective? That sounds pretty exciting.”
“Yeah . . .”
“More exciting than this shit, I bet.”
Sam shrugged a polite hell yes as Dave brushed aside a stack of file folders.
“What do you do?” Dave started closing up his books, stacking his papers. “Better yet, what the hell are you doing here? Not that I mind the interruption.”
“We’re more of a cybersecurity firm, really. I guess you could say that I take care of the human element.” Sam looked at his friend, who still had that perplexed look on his face. “The rest of the guys are hackers, tech heads. Except when they get out from behind the screen. I’m not the only former military guy. We work in the real world, too.”
“You mean with guns and grenades?”
“More of the former, but yeah.” Sam shrugged. He preferred to deal with intellect wherever possible, but he couldn’t deny there were times when his military training was infinitely useful. “We’re a boutique paramilitary, basically.”
Dave was smiling for some reason.
“I initially came down here to help a colleague out. During one of their investigations, they had a little run-in with a biker gang, and I guess they wanted me around to spot them in the crowd.”
Dave snorted. “Spot them in the crowd during Bike Week?”
“I wasn’t looking for bikers as much as I was looking for bad intentions. I can spot those from a mile away.” Sam looked around the room. There was a particular disorder to the place, unlike the Dave he knew. There was a row of full wastebaskets pushed up against the wall. Whatever couldn’t fit was strewn around them in small clusters of paper and packing plastic. “You got the janitors protesting, too?”
Dave kept his eyes on Sam. “Tell me more about this mission of yours.”
“Well, that’s it. It’s all pretty much wrapped up. Now, I’m basically trying to find excuses to stay away from D.C. Think you can help me out?”
“Sure. Break the law and I’ll be your lawyer. I’ll make sure you get a nice, long sentence in Orleans Parish Prison.”
“Is that the kind of performance that got you out of practicing?”
“No, that was my wife.” He pointed to his hair. “She convinced me. She wanted the hair to stay.”
“Great hair, Dave.”
“You joked about professor life being tough, but back when I was actually practicing, it was falling out in clumps. Maybe that’s what happens when you only get four hours of sleep every night.”
“That and a divorce, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, she warned me about that, too.” Dave leaned back and kicked his feet up over a messy desk. “So, what do you need?”
“Your research skills.”
Dave groaned. “Come on, I don’t do research anymore. Talk to my interns. Better yet, get a paralegal. They’re cheap. Dying for work. Fuck, most of them have their J.D.s now.”
“I need your access to case law.”
“What case?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
He groaned again. “Why couldn’t you just come here and ask me out for beers? I haven’t seen you in six years and here you are bringing me work.”
“We’ll still do beers.”
“I’ll need a lot to get motivated. What’s the area?”
�
��Huh?”
“Area of law.”
“Criminal.”
Dave just rolled his eyes.
“Federal? It has to do with crossing state lines.”
“Sounds like fun,” Dave said.
“Yeah?”
Dave sat motionless. “Yeah, I’ll get right on it.”
“Okay, and there’s one other thing.”
“Sure.”
“I was wondering if it would be possible to check if someone’s paying child support. And if not, why not?”
“That’s an easy one,” Dave said, sitting upright and waking up the desktop computer. “It’s just a records search. You could have done that.”
“I don’t know the father’s name.”
Dave chuckled. “Do you know the mother’s name?”
“Clara Miles. Daughter is Molly.”
Dave moved and clicked his mouse, waited for a page to load, and then started typing.
“Ever do lunch beers?” Sam asked. “I can take you out right now. I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“I can see that,” Dave said, still focused on his work, concentrating, his face tight with it. And then his face suddenly softened.
“What is it?”
“Hold on,” Dave said curtly. He started typing, and a minute later he turned to Sam and said, “Kurtis Brevic has been ordered to pay child support by the state of Louisiana. But he hasn’t, because he’s currently held by the state of Louisiana.”
“Jail?”
Dave nodded. “Assault and battery.”
Sam’s mind immediately leapt to the most dramatic, horrific, and infuriating conclusion. Had the bastard laid his hands on Clara? He shouldn’t overact without all the facts, he knew that. But he also knew that for all his logic, somewhere deep inside was an illogical, vengeful caveman.
“But don’t worry,” Dave said. “He’ll be paying soon. He’s getting released in a week.”
Dark Threat - A DARC Ops Christmas Novel Page 2