“Like an egg,” Newt said.
“You’re going over tomorrow?”
“No. Now that the egg has cracked, let’s let him fry until Wednesday.”
“Do you want me there?” Maggie asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Newt said. “Make sure you wear that red skirt of yours.”
“The short one?” Maggie asked.
“Yep,” Newt said. “The more leg you can show, the better.”
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
MARCH 14, 2011
OLYMPIA COULDN’T BELIEVE how sick she felt, and the timing couldn’t have been worse. It was the first day of her new job, working on-air at a small AM talk station in New Haven, Connecticut. A certain amount of nervousness was to be expected. But the uneasiness she was feeling was way beyond the normal first-day jitters.
She was literally sick.
But that’s what happened when you were pregnant.
Olympia placed the headphones over her ears and looked through the glass at the producer in the adjoining booth.
Relax, Olympia said to herself as she listened to the final few seconds of an ad for a men’s clothing chain. Everything is going to be fine.
The commercial ended.
The bumper music came on.
Olympia watched as the producer counted down to her cue on his fingers.
Three.
Two.
One.
The red On Air light lit up.
The producer pointed at Olympia through the glass.
And she promptly threw up all over the microphone.
To Olympia’s surprise, the station manager was extremely sympathetic when she finally reappeared from the bathroom.
“Hey, I remember my first day,” the station owner said. “Don’t worry. You’ll come along.”
“It’s not nerves,” Olympia said. “It’s morning sickness.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, well in that case, you’re fired.”
Olympia dropped herself on the sofa in the living room of the small studio apartment she rented on the outskirts of New Haven—specifically to be near the new job she’d just lost—and began to cry.
She did not want to call Graeme. It wasn’t his problem. But what was she supposed to do? She’d just lost the only job she could find.
Nathaniel had warned her about this. “When the TV people are done with you, they don’t just let you go,” he’d said over drinks back when he was still alive. “They take you to the top of the Empire State Building and throw your ass over the railing. Watch. You’ll see.”
Olympia reached over, grabbed her purse, and dug around until she found her cell phone. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and found Graeme’s number.
As expected, the call went through to voice mail.
Olympia waited for the beep.
“Hey sugar, it’s me—Olympia. How’ve you been? Good, I hope? Well, listen, I got some news. It seems I’ve got myself a baby kangaroo growing in my pouch, and since you’re the only man I’ve been with, I’m thinking it’s probably yours. Call me.”
WASHINGTON, DC
MARCH 18, 2011
STAN LEE WAS lying on the concrete slab in the room that had served as his home for the past twelve days, thinking about the various ways he intended to torture Newt Drystad if the opportunity ever presented itself.
Even though he knew it never would.
When you’re locked in a room in the basement of a building in God knows where, fantasies of taking a pair of pliers to the man who put you there were all you had.
Stan Lee heard footsteps echoing off the concrete walls in the distance and sat up. He felt naked without his prosthetics, and his stumps ached worse than he could ever remember. They were dry and cracked to the point of bleeding. He learned early on that asking for lotion was pointless.
Making sure he didn’t get what he asked for was part of the game that was being played.
The footsteps grew louder. How many people? It was more than one person. That he could tell for sure.
Then the door opened and in walked two people: Newt Drystad, and a woman in a skirt, with long slender legs that shined and shimmered in the florescent lighting as if she’d just rubbed baby oil on them.
Well played, Stan Lee thought.
“Well, if it isn’t Spider Boy,” Stan Lee drawled, using his well-practiced Southern Gentleman accent.
“Let’s go,” Newt said. “We’ll come back when Mr. Mungehr has come to grips with the reality of his situation and found some manners.”
Newt and Maggie turned and headed for the door.
“Wait—I apologize for my rude behavior,” Stan Lee said quickly. “Please, Special Agent Drystad, continue.”
“This is Special Agent Margaret McCord,” Newt said.
“Ah, yes—Agent McCord,” Stan Lee said. “How nice to see you again. The last time I had the pleasure you were lying on the ground bleeding. Am I to assume your firearm was returned to you without too much nasty red tape?”
Maggie did not respond.
“I’m curious,” Stan Lee said. “Does Agent McCord say anything, or is she here strictly as bureau eye candy?”
“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Mungehr?” Newt asked.
“By here, you mean, here—locked in a cold, empty room in an abandoned building, as opposed to having been booked, fingerprinted, and brought before a judge?”
“Yes,” Newt said.
“I think I can guess,” Stan Lee said. “Are we about to play Let’s Make a Deal?”
“That depends,” Newt said.
“On…?”
“On how helpful you’re willing to be,” Maggie said.
“You want to study me, is that it?” Stan Lee said.
“See, I told you he was smart,” Newt told Maggie.
“And if I were to agree, what’s in it for me?” Stan Lee asked.
“What’s in it for you?” Maggie said. “Nothing, Mr. Mungehr. Not a goddamn thing.”
“Then I’d rather go to trial,” Stan Lee said. “I’ll take my chances in a court of law before a jury of my peers.”
“He thinks he has a choice,” Maggie said. “It’s kind of cute in a pathetic sort of way.”
“Have you ever heard the story of ‘The Lady and the Tiger’?” Newt asked.
“Regale me,” Stan Lee said.
“Well, this barbaric king finds out his daughter has fallen in love with a peasant. As a punishment, the king makes the man stand in front of two doors. Behind one door is a beautiful lady who the man will be allowed to marry and live happily ever after with. Behind the other door is a hungry tiger who will maul the man to death.”
“Quite the dilemma,” Stan Lee said.
“Yes, to say the least,” Newt said. “But here’s the thing. Just before the man chooses which door to open, the princess learns which door has the tiger behind it and which has the lady. Which presents her with a problem of her own. Does she tell the man she loves to choose the door with the beautiful woman, which would spare her lover’s life but make her miserable—or does she send her lover to the tiger?”
“Okay,” Stan Lee said. “I give. Which does she choose?”
“Well, you see, that’s the thing,” Newt said. “The story has no ending. It ends right there. It’s up to each person to decide what he or she thinks the princess would do.”
“And what does this have to do with me?”
“You are the man in the story, Stan Lee,” Newt said. “But there is no beautiful woman. There are two doors, each with a tiger behind it. There are no good choices for you here. No matter which door you choose, you end up alone in a very dark place.”
The room filled with silence. Remain quiet, Newt thought. Give it time.
“When do I get my prosthetics back?” Stan Lee said finally.
“You don’t,” Newt said.
“What about a trade?” Stan Lee said.
“You have nothing to trade,” Maggie said.
“Oh, don’t I now.”
Newt knew what was coming next. At least he hoped he did. “Yes,” Newt said. “We’ll do a trade. Legs for legs.”
“And vanilla lotion,” Stan Lee said. “I’ll provide you with the recipe.”
“Jergens, take it or leave it,” Newt said.
“And if I say no?”
“You won’t,” Newt said. “I know you better than you know yourself, Stan Lee.”
“We’ll see.”
“How soon do I get to meet your friend?” Newt asked.
“Friend? I have no friends.”
“Sure you do,” Newt said. “You know who I’m talking about—the girl. The one who smokes the Virginia Slims. I assume the Marlboros were yours.”
Stan Lee glanced over in the corner at Kara, who shook her head and placed her finger over her lips.
“Is she here right now?”
“I’m tired,” Stan Lee said. “Bring me my legs, and I’ll get you that address. Oh, and one other thing…”
“What?” Newt asked.
“Please give my apologies to Wyatt Scrogger for the past thirty years of false incarceration,” Stan Lee said. “Tell him to enjoy his freedom, and that I said the next thirty are on me.”
“What just happened in there?” Maggie asked as she and Newt climbed into her car in the parking lot.
“What do you think just happened?” Newt said. “He admitted something we already suspected. That Wyatt Scrogger was framed—and he did it.”
“No, not that—I’m talking about the leg thing.”
“Oh, that,” Newt said. “We made a trade.”
“A trade? For what?”
“We give him his legs back, and he tells us where he hid Juniper Cole’s.”
“Good going,” Maggie said as she leaned in and gave Newt a kiss on the cheek. Then she held up her left hand and waited. Newt did not respond. “God, Newt—you are like the least observant FBI agent ever.”
“What? You mean the fact that you’re not wearing your engagement ring?” Newt asked. “I noticed you weren’t wearing it like three weeks ago.”
“You did not.”
“Yes, I did.”
“When?”
“When we were on the stakeout in the woods in Oregon,” Newt said.
“Did you notice or were you watching to see if I was still wearing it?”
“I was watching,” Newt said.
“For how long?”
“Not long,” Newt said. “Only like every day.”
“Does that mean you and I are…?”
“What? A thing again?” Newt asked.
Maggie nodded.
“I don’t know,” Newt said. “That depends on what happened to Chad. Did you let him down easy?”
“Yes, Newt,” Maggie said.
“So he definitely knows it’s over?”
“Yes, he knows,” Maggie said.
“That’s good,” Newt said. “There’s nothing worse around DC than a hanging Chad.”
“You know what, it’s stupid jokes like that that made me fall in love with you in the first place,” Maggie said.
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
MARCH 19, 2011
ONYX SAT ON a large rock deep in the interior of the enormous cavern, watching the waves crash on the rocks near the entrance to the Sea Lion Caves. She’d been there for almost a month, just sitting.
And waiting.
Waiting for the end to come.
Onyx held up her hand. She was so transparent now that she could see the gulls flying over the water through her skin.
It wouldn’t be long now, she knew—a week perhaps, or maybe only days. Onyx didn’t know for sure. She’d never let herself get this close before.
Would the end be like it was when she died the first time? Where she found herself looking down at her own body? Or would she simply be…
Gone?
Onyx assumed it was the latter, which was fine.
It was time to let go—to become whatever the universe wanted her to be next. Was it possible that embracing her own death was the most important thing she would ever do?
Then again, maybe there was no such thing as death. Maybe there was simply a change of worlds. And, if that was true, how would she ever know if she kept clinging to this one?
Onyx thought about all the time she’d spent afraid of death. Which made no sense. She was already dead. She needed to have faith that the universe had something else in store for her.
Something better.
Maybe that was the key to everything. Maybe the only way to become what you’re destined to be is to let go of who you were.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard.
Dying was hard.
What was it her father used to say? That the hardest thing and the right thing were usually the same thing.
Her father used to tell her how precious time was, and that she must use it wisely. “Time is a strange thing, Jitterbug. On one hand, time is free, yet on the other, it’s priceless. You never really own it, but you can do anything you want with it. You’re not allowed to save any of it up, but you can spend it. And once you’ve lost it, you ain’t never gonna get it back. Of all the gifts on God’s green earth, time is the thing we long for the most, yet—somehow or other—it always ends up being the thing we use the worst.”
Maybe that’s what bothered Onyx the most.
She’d been given the gift of so much time—more than most. Yet, deep down, she feared her life never amounted to anything. Other than a few paintings, what mark had she left on the world?
What legacy had she created?
She’d walked the earth for more than 113 years, yet it was if she’d never even existed.
A few more days, though, and none of it would matter.
Just a few more days.
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
MARCH 20, 2011
OLYMPIA WAS LYING on the sofa, mindlessly flipping through the pages of People magazine, when her cell phone rang. She snatched the phone from the coffee table, and her shoulders sagged. It was her mother.
Olympia let the call go to voice mail, tossed the magazine on the coffee table, and closed her eyes. Things always looked better after a nap.
Olympia had only been asleep for a few minutes when she heard someone knocking on her door.
She knew who it was too.
It was the landlord.
The woman was going to be disappointed when she found out Olympia still didn’t have the rent.
“I’m coming,” Olympia said loudly as she pulled herself off the sofa and made her way to the front door. But when she opened the door, no one was there.
Then Olympia glanced down and saw a stuffed animal sitting on the doormat.
A kangaroo.
“Hello, love,” Graeme said, appearing from around the corner of the building. “So we’re having a kangaroo, are we?”
WASHINGTON, DC
MARCH 21, 2011 – 2:16 P.M.
DOES HE UNDERSTAND what he’s signed up for?” Pipi asked from behind a gigantic glass desk in her new office at the main FBI headquarters.
Newt glanced at Maggie and looked back at Pipi. “Yes,” Newt lied.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Pipi said.
“Well, I may have given the impression that he has no options,” Newt said.
“Good. He doesn’t,” Pipi said.
“I used the ‘Lady and the Tiger’ story,” Newt said.
“So why did they move you to DC?” Maggie asked Pipi.
“They’re grooming her for director,” Newt said.
“Really?” Maggie said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Pipi said. “For right now, our focus has to be on the Leg Collector.”
“We’re not calling him that anymore,” Maggie said.
“He’s Mr. Mungehr from now on,” Newt said. “It’s the name he likes the least.”
“Okay. Well, I need the two of you to put your thinking caps on. We’re not going to be able to k
eep him at St. Elizabeths—not permanently at least.”
“Why? I thought Homeland Security owned—”
“They do, but they’re selling the property to the Washington Wizards.”
“The basketball team?”
Pipi nodded.
“They’re planning on turning the property into a practice facility.”
“Bad timing for us,” Maggie said.
“How soon?” Newt asked.
“I don’t know—they’ve just started talking, but we shouldn’t wait,” Pipi said.
Newt already had an idea on a possible location, but decided to hold off sharing it. There was no reason to bring it up until he checked out the viability of the location.
“Is that it?” Maggie asked.
“No,” Pipi said. “There is one other thing.”
Newt and Maggie exchanged a glance. Historically, whenever Pipi said there was one more thing, it was never good.
“It’s about Beatrice Shaw,” Pipi said.
Newt and Maggie exchanged another glance and waited.
“I wanted to give you a heads up that we’re going to arrest her later this afternoon,” Pipi said. “And we’ve tipped Domingo Gutierrez at HLN on the time and place.”
“A public perp walk?” Maggie said in disbelief. “For Beatrice Shaw? The caterer?”
“I thought Domingo Gutierrez worked in Savannah?” Newt asked.
“He did,” Pipi said. “HLN snatched him up after we gave him the exclusive on the gas leak story at the Mulvaneys. He’s national now.”
“Wait—back up a second,” Maggie said. “Why are we arresting Beatrice Shaw? What in the hell did she do?”
“Nothing,” Newt said.
Pipi nodded. “Newt’s right. Partially at least. We found her stolen catering truck. A ring of low-level drug dealers in Charleston was using it. They claim they took it in trade for $500 in cash and fifty vials of liquid—”
“—ketamine,” Newt said, finishing the sentence.
Pipi nodded. “The catalytic converter was missing from the vehicle. They swear they got it that way, and we believe them.”
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