Oh, her Section laptop had to be in here somewhere, since I’d heard the female cleaner asking about it earlier. Charlotte must have powered it down for the night because I didn’t sense any energy radiating from the device, and I didn’t have the time or patience to search for whatever cubbyhole she’d hidden it in. Besides, I didn’t want her laptop.
She was going to need it for work in the morning.
I glanced over, but Charlotte was still unconscious on the yoga mat. I would have liked to stay until she woke up, but I needed to get rid of the cleaners’ bodies. I didn’t want to just dump her here with no explanation, so I decided to leave her a note.
I went back to the kitchen island and grabbed the blue notepad and a pen out of her purse. But what to write? I wasn’t stupid enough to spell out everything that had happened, and there wasn’t enough room on the sheet for that anyway. My gaze landed on the plastic bag with its container of peach pie. I grinned, leaned forward, and scribbled a vague yet polite and friendly note, then stuck it on the counter.
Of course, she could always wake up, read the note, freak out, and make a run for it, but I was betting she wouldn’t do that. From what I’d read in her file, Charlotte Locke seemed like a very smart, very careful individual, and she would probably want to know exactly what was going on before she made any big, drastic, life-changing—or life-ending—decisions. Besides, thanks to the directional microphone I’d used to eavesdrop on her conversation with the man in the diner, I knew she didn’t have the money to go anywhere.
No, I was betting that Charlotte Locke would report to work at Section 47 in the morning like everything was normal and nothing noteworthy had happened tonight. That was the smartest, safest play. And if she didn’t, well, I would find her and make sure she did. I needed the analyst too badly to let her pull a vanishing act.
Still, as an added bit of insurance, I pulled a black fountain pen out of my pants pocket and dropped it into her purse. The pen contained a GPS tracker as well as a camera and a microphone, all of which I had synced to my phone. Hopefully, she wouldn’t spot it before I had a chance to talk to her. If she did and disposed of it, well, I had other ways of finding her.
I walked over and crouched down beside the analyst again. Her face was still a bit pale, so I gently took hold of her left wrist. Her pulse thumped steady and strong underneath my fingers. I concentrated, feeling the electricity humming through the lights and the attached wires in the walls, then reached out and grabbed hold of that power.
It only took me an instant to transform the sharp, jolting pulses of electricity into soft, steady energy, like the heat radiating from a fireplace. Once that was done, I slowly, carefully fed the warm, healing power into Charlotte’s body until the last of the sickly paleness left her face, and her features relaxed and smoothed out. Then I let go of her wrist and folded her hand on top of her stomach again.
“Sleep well, Numbers,” I said. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”
Charlotte’s forehead creased again, almost as if her subconscious was suddenly worried about my words. I stared at her a moment longer, then got to my feet, left the apartment, and locked the door behind me.
Chapter Five
Charlotte
I sucked in a strangled breath and sat bolt upright.
My hands clenched into fists, my eyes widened, and my head snapped from side to side as I tried to figure out where I was and what was going on. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but empty space greeted me, along with a familiar quiet.
For one heart-stopping moment, I thought I was in some abandoned warehouse, but then I spotted the mattress, blankets, and sheets on the floor a few feet away.
My apartment. I was in my apartment.
I sucked in another strangled breath and slowly let it out, forcing myself to push out the rest of my panic and fear along with it. My head snapped from side to side again, as I searched the area, but the lights were on, and no one else was here. No cleaners lying in wait to kill me, and no sign of him.
I drew my knees up to my chest and slumped forward, hugging one arm around my shins. With a shaking hand, I wiped the cold, clammy sweat off my forehead. I stayed like that for several seconds until my heart slowed and my hand quit trembling. Then I forced myself to straighten up and take a clearer, calmer look at things.
I was sitting on my old, worn-out yoga mat, and I was still wearing my waitress uniform, along with my gray jacket, although they were both covered with my blood, as were my ripped white tights and scuffed sneakers. I gingerly lifted the blood-crusted shirt away from my side, dreading what I would find, but to my surprise, my skin was uninjured and whole, and the gruesome stab wound had vanished. Even stranger, I actually felt…good…energized even.
I slowly climbed to my feet, expecting my head to start spinning and a wave of lethargy to crash over me, but nothing happened, and I felt better, stronger, and more clearheaded than I had in weeks, months even, since before the worst of my grandmother’s illness had begun.
What had he done to me?
I didn’t have an answer, and really, all I wanted to do right now was get out of these horrible bloody clothes. So I shrugged out of my jacket, shuffled into the kitchen, and stuffed the ruined garment into the trash can under the sink. Once that was done, I headed over to the alarm box on the wall by the front door, but the light burned a bright, steady green, indicating it was working. I switched off the alarm, opened the door, and peered at the lock on the other side, but no faint scratches or other marks marred the metal, indicating that it had been picked or jimmied open.
I glanced up and down the hallway, but it looked the same as always. An empty corridor with a few old landscape prints hanging haphazardly on the beige walls. So I reactivated the alarm, then shut the door, locked it again, and leaned my back against it. I crossed my arms over my chest and studied my apartment with sharp, critical eyes. My mind kept whirring, as my inner analyst kicked in, trying to make sense of everything.
After the cleaner attack in the alley, Desmond had obviously healed me—or had me healed—and had brought me here. Sick realization flooded my stomach. He knew where I lived, which meant he had been watching me. I wondered if he’d trailed me here from Section or the diner, or if he had already been in my apartment, waiting for me to come home. No way to know for sure, but each option made my skin crawl.
Then there was the giant, glaring, obvious question: Why?
Why had he been following me? Why had he saved me from the cleaners? And why had he brought me back here and then vanished?
What…do you…want? My own raspy voice rang in my ears, followed by his low, ominous answer. You.
Our previous conversation floated through my mind, and a shiver skittered down my spine. If there was one thing working for Section had taught me, it was that no one ever did anything simply out of the goodness of their heart, especially not a cleaner like Desmond. You didn’t kill people for a living and have some hidden altruistic streak.
Once again, my gaze roamed over the apartment, which wasn’t quite as empty as I’d first thought. My blue shoulder bag and a white plastic sack were sitting on the island counter that divided the kitchen from the living room.
I hurried over and peered into my shoulder bag, scanning the contents. Phone, wallet, lip balms. Everything seemed to be there, but my gaze snagged on one of the items.
“Keys,” I whispered.
Desmond must have used my keys to let himself into my apartment, although that didn’t explain how he had avoided triggering the alarm system.
A bit of pink haze caught my eye, swimming in the blackness at the bottom of my shoulder bag. I reached down, grabbed hold of the item, and pulled out…a pen.
I rolled it back and forth in my fingers, examining it from all angles. The black fountain pen was nice, sleek, and expensive, but it wasn’t mine. Otherwise, I would have hocked it long ago. The cleaner must have put it into my bag to…track me? Eavesdrop? Record everything I said and
did?
I shuddered and dropped the pen back into the bag. If there was a camera or some other bug hidden inside it, then all Desmond—or whoever else might be watching—would see was the bag’s black lining. I thought about snapping the pen into pieces and tossing them into the trash, but I didn’t want him to realize I’d found his bug. Not yet. Maybe I could turn the tables and somehow use it against him.
I looked through the rest of the items in my bag, but the pen was the only thing that didn’t belong, and I didn’t see or feel any trackers tucked into the lining.
I turned my attention to the other bag and pushed the white plastic aside to find…two pieces of peach pie in a clear container. After the cleaner attack, Desmond must have retrieved the food, along with my shoulder bag, and brought them both here to my apartment.
Why would he do that? What did he want with me?
I spotted another flash of color and slowly tiptoed forward again to find…
A light blue sticky note.
I recognized it as coming from the pad inside my shoulder bag. Desmond had apparently used it and one of the pens to leave me a message, which he had stuck to the counter in between my shoulder bag and the one that contained the peach pie.
Looks good, although you know that sugar will kill you, right? See you tomorrow.
Looks good? Sugar will kill you? See you tomorrow?
Well, that was weird, random, and strangely ominous all at the same time. And what kind of psycho cleaner put a fucking smiley face on his weird, random, ominous note?
Once again, I didn’t have the answers to my questions, and part of me didn’t want to puzzle them out. Crocodile Dundee Desmond might have saved me from Rosalita and the other cleaners, but I had a sinking feeling I was in more danger than ever before.
But first things first. I had to make sure I was truly safe, so I used my synesthesia to scan the rest of the apartment, searching for dangers, hazards, or anything that was new or out of place, but I didn’t find any more bugs. Looked like he’d only dropped the one pen into my shoulder bag. I also peered out the windows, but no one was lurking on the street outside. Not Desmond, not more cleaners, no one. Seemed like the danger was over—at least for tonight.
So what was I supposed to do next?
I glanced over at my yoga mat, thinking of the passports, guns, and cash hidden underneath the floorboards. Part of me wanted to raid my escape stash, stuff some clothes into a bag, and run away as fast as possible. But a lousy ten grand wouldn’t get me very far, and someone would eventually find me—Section 47, Desmond, or whoever had sent those cleaners after me.
Besides, if I ran, I would also be shirking my debt to Gabriel, which was something I didn’t want to do. Gabriel had been good to me in his own way, and he might understand if I told him what was going on…or he might not. Either way, he wouldn’t be getting any more of his money back if I left town and went into hiding.
Running was an option, but it wasn’t the best or most feasible option. So what else could I do?
My thoughts circled back to Desmond. He obviously wanted something from me, and he wanted it badly enough to kill four other cleaners to get it. His needing me alive was better than someone else wanting me dead. Besides, my blindly running away and waiting for more cleaners to show up and kill me wouldn’t solve anything.
My gaze kept roaming around the apartment, much like the various thoughts and scenarios kept spinning through my mind. A glimmer caught my eye, and I walked over and picked up the crystal mockingbird figurine sitting on the island counter. This bird was another gift from my grandmother and the mate to the matching figurine on my desk at Section. Just touching the smooth, clear crystal made me feel better, and the longer I stared into the mockingbird’s black crystal eyes, the more I thought about Grandma Jane and everything she had taught me.
The best thing—the smartest thing—would be to go to work at Section in the morning as though everything were normal and no one had tried to kill me. Once I was at Section, I could start gathering information about Desmond as well as figure out who might want me dead and why. Then I could plan my next move. And if I didn’t like what I discovered about Desmond, or if I couldn’t determine who my enemy was, then I could always come back here, grab my emergency supplies, and run.
I set the mockingbird on the counter and nudged it back into place. If nothing else, Grandma Jane would have approved of my coming up with a plan.
I just hoped my decision to stick around didn’t wind up getting me killed.
* * *
I couldn’t implement my plan until morning, and I was still covered in blood, so I stripped off my ruined waitress uniform and tossed it into the trash with my jacket, then took a long, hot shower and put on my favorite fleece pajamas. I also grabbed one of the guns from its hiding place, along with an extra magazine of ammo and one of the few kitchen knives I had left, and laid them on the floor next to my mattress. Once that was done, I crawled into my makeshift bed and pulled the blankets and sheets up to my chin, as though the soft fabric would protect me from whatever horrible things might come crashing through the front door.
The tremors started the second my head touched the pillow.
Adrenaline, fear, shock, worry. My emotions finally caught up with me, and I gritted my chattering teeth and let them run their course, just as I had dozens of other times over the years when I’d escaped from a dangerous situation that should have killed me. I didn’t cry, though. I’d wasted all my tears on my father long ago.
Once the tremors finally faded away, a dull, weary resignation swept over me, and I fell down into the blissful blackness of sleep. I woke up early the next morning feeling…well, not refreshed, but at least ready to face another day of secrets, lies, and superspies.
I got up, took another hot shower, and did some yoga to get my body moving. A few cat and cow poses. A couple of downward dogs. Several cobras. Even some warriors, lunges, and lizards to stretch out my legs. I flowed from one position to the next, focusing on my breathing and emptying out my mind.
Yoga almost always made me feel better, sharper, stronger, and it also helped me deal with the overwhelming sensations that my synesthesia often produced. On my mat, there were no bright, unwanted colors or loud, warning voices. Just the sticky feel of the rubber under my hands and feet, the steady thump-thump-thump of my heart, and the air gradually filling and escaping from my lungs. Quiet, calm, controlled, serene.
I needed all the serenity I could get.
When I finished, I slipped into gray cargo pants, along with a royal-blue T-shirt covered with gray musical notes; a soft, warm gray cardigan; and my favorite pair of gray sneakers.
I always wore sneakers. You never knew when you might have to run away from someone who wanted you dead. Another lesson I’d learned from both my father and my grandmother, and one that might be especially true today.
I ate both pieces of Pablo’s excellent peach pie for breakfast, grabbed my laptop from its hiding spot underneath the floorboards, and stuffed it into my shoulder bag, along with the gun, the extra ammo, and the kitchen knife. When I was properly armed, I left my apartment.
I stepped outside into the chilly morning air and scanned the people hustling along the sidewalks. Everything looked fine, and I didn’t see any bright red haze that would indicate someone was an immediate threat to me.
I stopped at the corner of the building, moved to the side, and bent down, as though I were retying my shoelaces. I discreetly glanced into the alley, but I didn’t see the cleaners’ bodies. If he was smart, Desmond would have gotten rid of the bodies last night, but I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to go back there and look for them. I got to my feet and moved on.
It was just after seven when I stepped inside the Section building, almost two hours earlier than I typically showed up, but Evelyn was sitting behind the information desk as usual. She always seemed to work longer hours than anyone else, and I couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t been in the lobby,
overseeing the comings and goings.
I waved at her.
“You’re in early,” Evelyn said, eyeing me in return. “Couldn’t sleep?”
A seemingly innocent question, but I had to hide my grimace. “Something like that.”
I forced myself to smile at her, then scanned my keycard, pushed through the turnstile, and headed to the elevators. Since so many Section agents were issued guns, there were no metal detectors in the lobby to scream out the fact that I was carrying multiple weapons in my shoulder bag.
I rode down to the third floor and headed into the bullpen. I was the first one here, and the area was empty and quiet, so I went to my desk, sat down, and powered up my laptop.
Normally, I would have used my regular CLocke log-in and password to access the Section network and start my work for the day, checking on the financial transactions, transportation purchases, and cute dog photos that my assigned bad guys had made and posted overnight. But someone was always watching at Section, including who accessed what information, and a whole IT subdepartment was devoted to making sure that the analysts, charmers, and other agents were actually working instead of using company computers, time, and Wi-Fi to play games, shop online, and download porn. Spies spying on spies. Such was life at Section 47.
Since I didn’t know who my enemies were, I didn’t want anyone to realize I was investigating Desmond, especially not Desmond himself. As soon as I searched for his name, an electronic record would be created indicating that I had looked him up, and I had no idea if anyone had put any alerts or flags on his file. So instead of using my normal log-in, I entered a different one—Mockingbird—along with the appropriate password.
Mockingbird was something Grandma Jane had dreamed up years ago. Back when she’d been working as a Section analyst, she had sweet-talked a hacker who owed her a favor into building the code, and it had been her invisible back door into the Section network ever since. It was a ghost log-in, one that didn’t trigger any internal alarms and left no trace behind in the system. Grandma Jane had been an avid birdwatcher, and she’d dubbed the code Mockingbird, since it mimicked what was already in the Section network, just like actual mockingbirds could mimic the songs of other birds.
A Sense of Danger Page 7