by Fiona Quinn
“Mrs. Reuben? I’m sorry, I…”
“Mrs. Rueben was my mother. I’m Mrs. Sobado.”
He lifted his briefcase and walked toward me, his eyes unblinking.
“Lexi,” I said, reaching out my hand, hoping he’d mention his name.
“Seth Toone.” When his hand touched mine, a buzz radiated up my arm into my neck and jaw. It was like I’d whacked my elbow on a door frame. Painful and odd. How did he do that?
“You look just like your mother. It’s shocking, almost.” He was obviously flustered.
I wondered if he got the same zap I did.
“The last time I saw you, you were just a teenager.” He pressed his fingers onto his tie. “It was at your dad’s funeral.” He swallowed hard enough that I heard the phlegm galumph down the back of his throat. “I worked with your dad. He was an amazing man. It’s a stretch for a stranger to say this, but he would have been so incredibly proud.”
I smiled. Proud of what exactly?
“You are the spitting image of your mother. Crazy. How is she?”
“Dead.” But as I was saying that, my stomach clenched. It was a knowing. London Bridge is Falling down. Falling down…
“I’m so sorry to hear. My condolences. Forgive me for intruding.” He gave me an odd little bow and walked away.
“Chica?” Striker’s voice sounded far away.
“Hmm?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You don’t look okay.”
Oliver was watching the scene unfold with curiosity.
“Yeah, I just had a thought. Something I should research a bit.” It was an obfuscation, not a lie.
I could feel them, my parents, hovering there over my shoulder.
Their angst felt like handwringing. They were anxious.
My PTSD psychiatrist cautioned that I might have developed an enhanced knee-jerk reaction. Where I have a hyper response to a small stimulus. It’s relatively common for survivors of physical assault to flinch larger, cry out sooner, act as if the thing that’s happening to them is bigger, badder than it might have been perceived before the abuse.
I was in danger of becoming a hyper Lynx.
I smiled briefly at that thought.
Well, all that made good sense.
If my attacker wanted to hear my scream, and I held back to not offer the reward, it would be that much more pain that I’d have to endure, and he’d get the scream anyway. Why not just scream at first touch?
My psychiatrist said that was one way that survivors coped.
Another was that I might see everything through the lens of a survivor, hoping not to get caught up in another horrible event. My body was primed for anxiety. Anxiety might have no rhyme or reason. But as a thinking, puzzling person, I would try to find the source of concern to squash it. The problem with that strategy was that often there was no concrete reason.
She suggested that when anxiety percolated up like it had when I shook Seth Toone’s hand, that I not try to adjust my antennae to a station to understand it.
Anxiety could just be anxiety.
Anxiety could have been triggered by something I didn’t necessarily see on the conscious level as a threat.
The problem, she said, might come when anxiety brightened my electrical system. Needing to know why I experienced the physical reaction might lead me to search out a reason like, “Did I leave the stove on? Is my house burning down?” Doing that could lead to more profound anxiety issues.
Okay. I got that.
I have a friend under medical intervention for OCD where if she didn’t check, double-check, triple-check every light, every appliance, and every lock, she was too anxious to leave the house. Her issues started after a house fire in which their beloved cat died of smoke inhalation.
But that wasn’t this. I didn’t think so anyway. I meant…it could possibly be that I was lit up from the bad dream, the potential kidnapping and fight, my terrible interactions here at the CIA today, and the upcoming party filled with Assemblymen.
It was a lot for even the most even-keeled of people.
Was this me creating a story to explain my anxiety? Or was this truly my ESP warning system?
Chapter Sixteen
Striker and I were hand in hand, making our way across the expanse of Langley’s parking lot. “Give Finley a call, Chica. Put off the FBI until after you’ve seen Dr. Carlon and had a good night’s sleep.”
“Spyder wouldn’t have contacted me before five this morning if this situation could wait. I have to assume they have a small window.”
He fobbed the car unlocked. “I get it, but Lexi, you’re not superhuman.” He opened my door for me.
“No?” I piled into the passenger seat and looked up at him.
Striker leaned in and kissed my nose. “Sorry. But no.” He shut my door and rounded to his side of the car, where he climbed under the steering wheel.
“Are you afraid I’ll have a freak out at the FBI like I did when I saw Black, and you won’t be there to stop the scene from turning bloody?”
“Angry, violent outbursts can be caused by head trauma.” Striker pressed the button to start the engine.
“I was neither.” I pulled on my safety belt. “Okay, I was angry that John Black walked away. But I wasn’t violent. It’s completely rational that I would want to talk to him.”
“You need to tell Dr. Carlon.”
I posted my elbow on the armrest and planted my head in my palm. “Fine,” I whispered.
“What’s fine?”
“Fine, I’ll bring it up when I go see Dr. Carlon. You won’t stop trying to assess me until I do. Let’s just nip that in the bud.”
“I’m not the bad guy here.” He put the car in gear and started to navigate his way out of the lot.
“No, you’re not. There’s been a parade of bad guys today, and you are most emphatically not one of them. I don’t want to go to the doctor because I’m always afraid the other shoe’s gonna drop, and she’s going to tell me something devastating about my health.” I pinched my lip. “I’m changing the subject. Did I tell you I got a job working at the diner? I start as a server tomorrow morning. The four to noon shift.”
“So much for beauty sleep.”
“You think I need beauty sleep?” I flapped my hand to tell him I was kidding, let the question go. “At the diner, when they put my name on the schedule, I noticed I’d be there with a woman named Destiny. I didn’t see Modesty on the list. Hopefully, at the FBI, I’ll find out if I found the mark.”
“And not the wrong diner.”
“I’m not saying that I didn’t consider that. I triple-checked the text from Finley. And if that was a mistake, I just won’t show up tomorrow. I’ll mark it up to the Universe asking me to intervene with the gal being attacked.”
“You’re not a weapon for the Universe to wield.” Striker’s tone was emphatic.
“But you are, oh tip of the spear?”
“Okay.” He lifted his hand to salute the guard as we passed the security check. “I get what you’re saying. Let me clean that up. It’s my druthers that you weren’t used as a weapon by the Universe. Is ‘Burger Go!’ okay for lunch?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. About tonight, thank you for remembering Mom loved sunflowers.” I touched my hand to my chest. “But I think I’m going to skip a trip to the cemetery. I just want to go home and curl up on the couch with you. Watch some mindless TV, maybe. And go to bed super early so I can get up at three to get to the diner in time for my first shift.”
“All right.”
“I…hmm. Thinking about Mom this whole week… I’m not sure what it is that I’m feeling. Conflicted, I guess, is the best word. I wish she were alive. I wish I could introduce you to her. But I’m glad she’s out of that horrific pain, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” He reached over and took my hand.
“She had wrung every possible kindness and joy out of her life even with the misery and p
ain she went through. I think that the biggest gift I was able to offer her in return was that she saw me as a capable adult before she died. She told me as much.”
“You know, when I met you as Lexi at the hospital and learned about all the things you knew and could do, it was astonishing, almost overwhelming that you had that expanse of skills at nineteen.”
“Oh, please. When you were that age, you were a SEAL, putting in your time and acquiring expertise to join SEAL Team Six.”
“Stop deflecting, listen.”
I pressed my lips together.
“I always wondered if you weren’t busy gathering accomplishments so that your mom could see that you were a success and capable. That she’d know it was okay for her to let go of that pain.”
I squeezed my nose then sniffed. “Yeah, you may well have something there. That pressure to be an adult as soon as I possibly could. Capable. I worked hard at it, from waking up in the morning until I fell into my bed at night. I don’t regret it. Everything in my life, even the garbage things, served me. And the tools in my toolbox have kept me alive where other people might have failed.”
“Would certainly have failed.” Striker’s voice was adamant.
“Okay, I’ll agree with that. So I get to stay alive because my mom was dying, and I needed to demonstrate my competence to her.” I paused. “I was thinking up at the CIA about nature versus nurture in terms of how DNA could or couldn’t tell us what someone looked like. I’m really not sure that I agree with the artist’s premise for her found chewing gum. But for an art installation, it’s fine. For intelligence gathering? Murky.”
“Agreed.”
“It’s an interesting thought, though. I wonder what I would have become with this same DNA but different nurturing background—if I’d gone to school instead of homeschooling, for example. If Mom hadn’t been sick, and I didn’t feel the need after Dad died to be the adult of the family. What career would I have picked had I not known Spyder?”
“An interesting series of questions.”
“I also wonder what would have happened to you if your sister Lynda wasn’t your sister.”
“How do you mean?”
“Because she has—what shall we call it? A checkered past? Poor judgment? A danger gene that led her toward destructive choices rather than using them for good the way you did joining the Navy to become a SEAL. What would have happened without Lynda in the picture? You’d still be on SEAL Team Six.”
“Maybe. I think it works out. By joining Iniquus instead, I get to do the same kinds of mission work. I’m still serving our country. And I got to meet you.”
“Bonus.”
“But I get what you’re saying. Lynda and I come from the same gene pool—nature. But we put those genes to different uses.” Striker pulled into the line at the Burger Go! “The usual?”
“Thanks.” I laid my head back and closed my eyes while Striker ordered our lunch. Good thing he would be driving. I’d have enough time to shove the fast food in my mouth en route, then climb out of the car and run up the steps to the FBI.
And while Striker was driving, I’d have time to regroup.
What did I know going into this meeting?
Spyder had called. And hung up.
That meant that Spyder was in the field and took an opportunity to reach out.
That phone call was information.
I have worked with Special Agent Steve Finley on cases where he was up to his chin in the sewage of his poor choices on a mission. I had supported Finley when he was in desperate straits. He has given me a nod or a silent pause to convey information that I desperately needed to understand a situation. And that had made all the difference.
I really do respect Finley and his work. If he had called me this morning and asked for a meeting, I would have said yes even without Spyder’s directive.
One - This FBI case is of interest to Spyder.
Two - Spyder wants me involved in this case.
Three - This case has to do with a cult or cult-like entity.
Four - Spyder used to be partnered with my dad. My dad had been in the CIA. Spyder has not clarified if he had as well. I assumed not. But that didn’t mean that Dad and Spyder weren’t working toward the same ends.
Five - Spyder’s main juice in life, and I was speculating here because Spyder was nothing if not close-lipped about his…everything. I didn’t even know what country he was born in, how he came to have the Scottish-sounding last name of McGraw when he looked as far from Scottish with his blue-black skin, high angular cheek bones, and soft East Asian accent as one could. But from what I had worked on with him and the seed I could glean, Spyder had always been interested in taking down the Assembly. Had my dad worked on that same mission? Am I following in Dad’s footsteps? It was interesting. I have met several soldiers who were born while their dads were fighting in the Middle East. Now, as adults, they were barreling down the dusty roads of Iraq and Afghanistan, standing behind their big guns precisely where their dads had. Nothing had changed. Just another generation of fighters stepped up to do their duty.
Six - The Assembly met all the criteria for secret societies. It was an invitation-only group. White. Male. Elite. Once you were invited into the Assembly and were given the pin, you had it made.
This had to be about the Assembly.
It had to.
“Seven?” Striker glanced my way.
“What?” I asked.
“You were counting. You got to six and stopped.”
“Yeah, that’s where I’m stuck for the moment. I was thinking about the FBI meeting.”
“Something you can brief me about?”
“You know as much as I do. I was wondering how involved this FBI case is going to be.”
“Gator and Christen’s wedding is next week.” Striker budged up to the window, handing over the money to cover our order.
“Yeah.” I accepted the bag, which Striker handed to me to distribute.
“No ‘weeee!’ No jazz hands? That wasn’t a very enthusiastic, ‘yeah.’” He rolled up his window and drove on.
“Oh, about Gator and Christin, I’m a thousand percent enthusiastic.” I unwrapped his sandwich and rewrapped it so he could eat and drive, then handed it over. “It’s having to go to the party Thursday that’s got my system tied in knots.” I pulled out the straws, unwrapped them, and inserted them into our drinks.
Striker reached for a fry. “Gator stopped by for a chat about that.”
“Oh?”
“Of course, we were invited to that pre-nuptial celebration because we’re in the wedding party.”
“Hmm.” I picked up my soda for a sip. “They gave me the wrong thing. I don’t recognize this flavor. It’s like cherries.”
“Try mine.” He pointed to his cup. “Christen and Gator thought when they decided on a tiny wedding with the nuclear family and a handful of friends that they’d be able to manage to keep her family from posturing. Keep the Assembly away from them.”
“It’s complicated. I get that.” I set his drink down. “Yours is wrong, too.”
“After last fall, when her dad had brain surgery…even if Christen disapproves of who Davidson is as a human being, he’s also her dad.”
I nodded.
My dad had been so admired. Had led such a wholesome life. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to grow up in the swamp of an Assemblyman’s family.
I didn't know how Christen managed to walk away from both nature and nurture as an intact human being and an amazingly accomplished pilot. A good and ethical person, she was a testament to a strong inner core of values. I had to assume she learned those values from her biological mom.
“Gator and Christen want us to know we have no obligation to go to the celebration that her stepmom is organizing Thursday.”
“We’re in their wedding party.” I started in on my burger. “Don’t you think that would seem strange if we weren’t there?”
“Does it matter what p
eople think?”
“True story, I couldn’t give a flying flip about the guests. But I do care about Christen and Gator. They asked us to be in their wedding party to support them as they started their new life together. It would kind of suck if we said we can’t sit in the same room with people in a group that we detest. Especially knowing Gator and Christen detest them too. Support means support in sickness and in health. For better or for worse.”
“Exactly. That’s what I told Gator. He seemed relieved.”
“I’m thinking about London and William Davidson. Can you imagine the level of…what’s the word I want? Not selfishness. Not entitlement.”
“Narcissism?”
“That’s closer. The level of narcissism to say: Hey, you’re getting married, and you want it to be a small intimate circle of people who know and love you, but I don’t care. I’m having a big old shindig full of guests you’ve never met before. It’s going to be lavish. It’s going to be long. And on top of that, I’m going to make it formal knowing you both hate formal events and the clothes required.”
“At least it’s Thursday. Friday will be the rehearsal and a laid-back meal at your house to just chill and enjoy. Saturday’s the wedding. They’ll be off on their honeymoon, and we—”
“Will breathe a sigh of relief.” We were right outside of FBI Headquarters. I balled up my trash and shoved it in the waste bag hanging on the back of my seat.
“We can do this,” Striker said.
“Agreed. I wish, though, you didn’t call it my house. It’s our house.”
“Our house then.”
I leaned over and put my forehead on Striker’s shoulder. “We were supposed to be married already. I’m sorry.”
“Chica, it’s not your fault. It’s a party. It’s a piece of paper. What it’s not is the truth.”
I didn’t look up, but I did press a kiss into his bicep, so he knew I was listening and accepting.
Striker and his eagle eye saw a car pulling out, and he whipped us into the slot. “Ready?”
“No.” I undid my seatbelt.
“Game face.”
I sent him a vacant smile, holding my eyes wide and vacuous.