A Bodyguard to Remember

by Alison Bruce

  I looked up. He was giving me that half-smile again.

  “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. While we process and clean your house, we’ll put you and your children up in a hotel close to your neighbourhood.”

  “I’ll need to pack a few things . . .”

  “You can pick up some new things.”

  I frowned. “My budget isn’t up to this, Sergeant Merrick.”

  Again with the fractional smile. “Within reason, we will cover your expenses.”

  “Does that include a laptop so I can work?”

  He raised a single eyebrow and stared. Very Spockish.

  I returned his gaze and discovered he had grey eyes —deep grey like the lake at twilight. I had time to count the silvery flecks in the grey. He might be Vulcan-like, but in another life I was a cat.

  “Maybe I can borrow something for you to use,” he said, breaking eye-contact first. “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  Good news, my children and I love hotels. We were booked into the newly renovated hotel near the university that, I was told, supplied an in-room fridge, kettle, and coffee maker. It also provided a continental breakfast in the morning and free Internet access—if only I had my laptop. Best of all, from the kids’ point of view, it had a pool.

  Going to the house wasn’t as helpful as Merrick had said. If Nadar had sifted through the clutter in the kids’ bedrooms or basement, I couldn’t tell. Nothing seemed to have been moved in my bedroom and my office was all open shelving. He would have been able to see everything I had without disturbing the dust. I couldn’t add anything to what they already knew.

  After school, I picked up Hope and Boone and we went shopping with a government issued credit card. With Merrick looking over my shoulder, we shopped frugally for clothes and sundries. Then we visited the grocery store for lunchmeat, snacks, and drinks. Merrick stuck with us, which worried me. Another plainclothes officer hovered in the background. It was reassuring to know they were there, but scary to realize they felt the need to dog our heels. When we got to our room, Merrick said he’d return to take us out for dinner in an hour.

  “This is so cool,” said Boone, bouncing from one bed to the other until I caught his attention and shook my head.

  “It’s weird,” Hope commented. “Strange being in a hotel so close to home.”

  “We should’ve got a place with a kitchen,” said Boone, now checking out the fridge. “If the government is paying for all this, does that mean we can eat this stuff? There’s pop, candy bars, nuts . . .”

  “You can have a soft drink,” I said.

  “But if we’re not paying for it?”

  “Almost dinner, doofus,” Hope pointed out. “Do you want something, Mom?”

  “I’m good. Maybe you guys would like to organize our new stuff. I’ve got to call your grandmother and update your father.”

  “Grandma’s going to pitch a fit,” Boone observed. “If you like, I’ll tell her.”

  It was a tempting offer. My son was right. My mother would pitch a fit. She’d find some reason why a strange man showing up dead in my living room was my fault. At the very least, she’d be generally angry because it happened. However, she’d never get angry around the kids.

  “I’ll let you smooth things over after I give her the news,” I said. “But maybe I’ll call your father first.”

  “Chicken,” squawked Hope, flapping two new long-sleeve t-shirts like wings. “I call the couch.”

  The room came with the standard two queen-size beds plus a pullout couch. Everything was made up. There was also the requisite desk, bench, and armoire that hid the TV in its top half and had three drawers in the bottom.

  I let the kids organize our purchases while I made my calls. Beds were argued over, groceries and clothes put away, new clothes donned in time for Merrick’s return.

  Hope answered the door and let Merrick in. He brought the geeky guy with him. This was a good excuse to say good-bye to Mom who, as expected, blamed me for not having better locks on my door even though she never locked a door before bedtime.

  “This is my colleague, Ezekiel Chan,” Merrick said, introducing the younger man. “He’s an information technology specialist, among other things.”

  He was about Seth’s height, about six feet or 1.85 metres if you asked Seth. Medium build, he had the kind of body I associate with baseball players—built for speed but with broad shoulders and muscular arms. In other words, not as geeky as he first appeared.

  “People call me Zeke, or E-Z,” he said, offering his hand first to me then to each of the kids.

  “E-Z?” asked Boone.

  “For E-Zekiel,” said Chan, grinning at my son. “Someone stuck me with that when I was about your age.” Then he turned to me. “I’ve got something for you, ma’am.”

  He stepped into the room and went to the desk. He had a black leather backpack, which he placed on the chair and unpacked. Inside was a wide-screen laptop and wireless mouse. He set them up on the desk and sat down.

  “I’m afraid I can’t return your laptop. It’s evidence. But I mirrored the hard drive after creating a forensic copy. All your docs, pics, and tunes are here. I was able to transfer your browser, email, and most of your other programs with your data.”

  “Wow.”

  “What’s a forensic copy?” asked Hope.

  “That’s when we make a copy of the contents of an electronic device, like a laptop or smart phone,” said Chan. “We don’t want to mess with the original in case something goes wrong.”

  “How do you make a forensic copy?”

  Boone shoved his sister. “I’m hungry.”

  “I was just asking.”

  I sighed and told them to get their shoes on and to wash up for dinner. Once they were occupied, I asked, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “No,” Zeke said with a sigh. “But I noticed you had a shortcut to a remote drive.”

  “Oh yeah.” I didn’t like where this was going. “I keep that in my purse when I’m not using it.”

  “Did you leave it with your laptop when you left your table?”

  I wanted to lie, but I nodded.

  “I’m going to need it, ma’am.”

  “My work is on it. Client work. The stories I’ve written and the book I’m working on.”

  “Book?”

  Chan’s eyes widened to almost manga proportions.

  “I make my living doing editing and proofing for academia, but what I really want to be is a science fiction author. So far I’ve had a few short stories published.” Okay, more than a few.

  He gave me a speculative look, eyes now narrowed to slits. I returned his gaze, trying to convey through telepathy or at least a pained expression, how important this was to me. He looked over at Merrick. I followed his gaze. Merrick shrugged.

  “Do what you can,” he said.

  Zeke asked for the flash drive and I provided it. It was on a key chain with my external network router. Truth be told, my old laptop was a dinosaur.

  “Well, you won’t need that with this,” he said, holding up the latter gizmo. “You have a router, Bluetooth, and a cellular modem built in. I’ll get you a replacement flash drive, but in the meantime, I can transfer your data to the laptop—which has more than enough room to store ten times the data on this. I just have to check the directory for any piggybacked data . . . hey, why don’t you guys go ahead to dinner. This might take a while since I don’t want to transfer anything that isn’t supposed to be there. I’ll catch up when I’m done.”

  Merrick agreed and we left Zeke to his machinations.

  We took my car and went downtown for Chinese food. There were closer restaurants, but our favourite place was downtown and we needed a familiar treat.

  Sergeant Merrick barely fit in my little car, but he was good-natured about it. Maybe he understood that driving gave me some illusion of control. That’s one of the reasons I drove a standard. These days, most people haven’t got a c
lue what to do with a clutch. Seth never learned. More importantly, my mother was strictly automatic everything. Before she accepted that her eyesight was going, she insisted that she could still drive. Once her jelly-bean-red Neon was sold and my metallic green Echo was in the driveway, she couldn’t sneak out risking vehicular homicide.

  One of the other nice things about driving standard is that you have to focus more on what you’re doing, especially when you’re driving on a main artery at the tail end of rush hour and hitting every other light. I didn’t have enough attention to fret about the turmoil in my life. What brain-power wasn’t used gearing up and down as I wove through traffic, I spent listening to Merrick as he broke the ice with my kids.

  “Call me Sarge,” he told them, still sounding like the impassive Vulcan, even when he added, “we don’t need to be formal. We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other for a few days. Also, if you have any questions about what’s going on, I’ll do my best to answer them.”

  Hope had a hundred questions ranging from whether he had ever killed anyone (no) to uniform dress rules, as in when he might wear his red uniform (ceremonial occasions only) to asking for a suspect list in the murder case.

  “That is a matter of national security,” Merrick said. “If I told you . . .”

  “You’d have to kill me?” Hope finished.

  Then Boone made a rather embarrassing comment about me having a thing for men in uniform, prompting Merrick to apologise for being a plainclothes detective.

  “That’s okay,” Boone said. “Cop uniforms aren’t her favourite anyway. She likes Starfleet uniforms best.”

  “Don’t be rude,” Hope said, punctuating her order with a punch from the sound of it. She was only a few minutes older than her brother, but she acted like a big sister. “You’re not supposed to call cops ‘cop’ to their face.”

  I darted a look at Merrick. His Vulcan-like reserve was cracking.

  “Not a problem,” he said, managing to keep his voice steady. “Cop is just short for Constable On Patrol. Now, if you call a police officer a ‘pig’ that’s rude . . . and stupid.”

  “So I can call you a cop?” Boone asked.

  “I don’t really mind, but I’m a detective sergeant, not a constable. Why don’t you stick with Sarge?”

  “Yeah, doofus,” said Hope.

  Fortunately, for the sake of peace in the backseat, we were just a parking space away from arrival. Once they were out of the car, Hope and Boone switched on their best behaviour knowing that I wouldn’t take them into the restaurant if they weren’t well-mannered.

  Inside, the conversation revolved around the relative merits of the different dishes on the buffet. Boone, in particular, made a mission out of making sure Sarge tried all his favourite dishes. Hope rolled her eyes a lot, embarrassed by her brother’s hero worship. I was generally amused and forgot, for a little while, how we came to meet Sergeant Merrick.

  The jacket stayed on, but he loosened his tie and undid his top button. If you ignored the gun, Merrick almost looked like a regular guy. Well, maybe not regular. He was taller, broader, and more muscular than your average regular guy. Boone made him laugh and laughter transformed him from Mr. Spock to Captain Kirk—not that he looked like either. He did remind me of someone in the Trek Universe, however. I just hadn’t placed it yet.

  When it was clear that Zeke wouldn’t be joining us, we got takeout for him. At this point the kids were getting tired, and so was I for that matter. It wasn’t that late, but none of us had slept well the night before and the stress was catching up with us. We crowded into the car. Hope and Boone were quiet and dozed off almost immediately.

  “Zeke and I will be staying in the hotel,” Merrick said, speaking softly. “We have a room next to yours.”

  I nodded. I was glad they would be close, but I didn’t trust my voice to comment. I had automatically started towards home and had to rethink my route. This started with crossing a couple of lanes quickly to make my turn. That’s when I noticed we were being followed. I looked back to confirm, then over to Merrick. He was turned in his seat just enough to be able to watch me and the road.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s one of ours. Well spotted.” He took a deep breath as if steeling himself to say something unpleasant. “Until this matter is settled, you’ll be protected, but you’ll need to do your bit. To start, don’t let your children answer the door.”

  My turn to take a deep breath, or maybe it was a gasp.

  The car slowed as my foot slid off the accelerator. We were on an uphill grade and I felt the groan of the transmission starting to lock up. Gearing down, I avoided stalling and regained control, if not all my composure.

  “I-I didn’t even think . . .” I said, visions of kidnapping popping into my head. I could just imagine me telling Seth that I lost one or both of our kids because I let them open the door to an international spy. What I couldn’t imagine was how I’d be able to live with myself if something happened to my babies.

  Merrick patted my shoulder. It was warm, heavy, and reassuring. “No one expects you to think of everything,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. From now on, make sure the kids know they are not to answer the door or phone. When you’re in the room, use the security latch. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “The kids said they want to go swimming tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll call you at seven to find out if you’re up for it. Even when I tell you I’m coming to pick you up, make sure the door is latched and you look through the peep hole before you open the door.”

  Again, I nodded. With some effort I managed to find my voice.

  “Thank you.” It seemed inadequate. “I appreciate your efforts, and I really appreciate your company. You make the surveillance thing pretty comfortable.”

  “We’re here to serve and protect, not scare and intimidate.”

  I smiled and shot him a glance. He was watching me while scanning the road ahead and behind, eyes always moving.

  “That’s our turn,” he said.

  He was on top of everything. Left up to me, we would have been driving around another large block.

  “Hope, Boone, we’re here.”

  Hope woke by the time I parked. Boone was out for the count.

  “You take the food,” Merrick said, “I’ll take Boone.”

  Hope and I held the doors, Hope leaning against me sleepily. Fortunately, we didn’t have far to go. Though shorter than his sister, Boone is heavier than he looks. Merrick cradled him gently and didn’t seem to mind the weight.

  “Do you have kids, Sergeant?” I asked, feeling suddenly sentimental.

  “A grown son. His mother and I separated when he was around Hope and Boone’s age, but I had joint custody when I wasn’t working out of town.”

  Zeke was still at my new laptop. He started guiltily when we entered and I noticed he was in the middle of one of my short stories.

  “Sorry,” he said blushing. “I had to check each file to make sure it didn’t have anything embedded in it before I transferred it and I came across your stories and started reading. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I suppose not,” I replied. “I wrote them to be read—most of them, in any case.”

  Some of them were little better than daydreams on paper. I went through a fan-fiction phase when Seth and I separated. For a while I had a hot and heavy time-travelling romance with Messieurs Spock, Data, and Odo. If he found one of those stories in my archive . . . I felt myself blush.

  “Maybe we should all get some sleep now,” said Merrick.

  I nodded. Boone was already tucked up, his shoes and socks beside the bed. Hope had disappeared into the bathroom with her nightshirt. I was ready to collapse—from exhaustion and embarrassment—but I tried not to let it show. Zeke obviously had something he needed to tell me. He was standing by the desk, face pinched and serious.

  “Ma’am,” he started. Then he stopped for a moment as though choosing his words. “Ms
. Hartley, I have to examine all your files, but I don’t have to pay attention to content if you don’t want me to. But I’d like to read your stories if you don’t mind.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “I should have mentioned this before I started reading.”

  At that moment he seemed far too young to be an RCMP investigator. He reminded me of Boone when he sought forgiveness instead of asking permission.

  “Go ahead.” I sighed. “Just keep in mind, some are works in progress and the ones in the NFP file are fan fiction—Not For Publication.”

  “I don’t suppose you write Star Trek fan fiction?”

  I felt myself relax. He wouldn’t have asked if he’d already reached my archived files.

  “Do Klingons butt heads?” I responded. “Actually, I wrote a Star Trek novel, but I couldn’t sell it. However, I would prefer if you didn’t pay attention to the stuff in zipped files. It’s old stuff—not my best work.”

  “Fair enough.” He grinned. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Say good night, Zeke,” Merrick said, pushing him towards the door.

  “Good night, Zeke,” Zeke and I said in unison.

  * * *

  I had a bizarre, Looney Tunes-type dream with the Big Bad Wolf trying to blow my house down with Acme-supplied sticks of TNT. I awoke to a rattling sound. Someone was trying to get through the door.

  Boone woke up. At some point he had snuck into bed with me.

  “Wass’appening?” he slurred, half asleep.

  “Shh,” I said in an urgent whisper. “Get into the bathroom, quick. Hope!” I hissed. I grabbed my daughter’s foot and shook it. “Get into the bathroom now!”

  I picked up the room’s portable phone and my cell phone as I hurried them along. I dialed Merrick’s room on the portable then *9-1-1 on my cell while herding my children.

  “Lock the door. Duck down in the tub,” I told them, shoving them into the small room. Hope switched on the light, but I turned it off again. “Keep the light off and be quiet . . . I love you.”

  I closed the door and heard the lock click. There was a moment of silence, then a loud slam. Terrified, I hid in the open closet opposite the vanity sink in the alcove outside the bathroom.