The Whole Truth (The Supercharged Files Book 1)

by Jody Wallace

  Beau jumped out of his chair and ran toward the door. Unfortunately, Jojo had reached him and he tripped, trying to avoid a canine smooshing incident.

  The dog continued its sprint unscathed. Beau, for the second time in two days, barreled into me.

  I staggered back, Beau in my arms. It sounds like dancing, but it wasn’t. His knobby-haired skull thumped my cheek. Since I’d worn slacks and flat shoes, I had better balance. We didn’t fall.

  As soon as we stopped careening like two drunks, he shoved away from me and took off down the empty corridor without a word.

  “What’s his problem?” Gladys said.

  “Sociopath.” Okay, that wasn’t a polite way to refer to a teammate in front of a customer. “I’m being catty. He has a headache. I bet he’s going to get aspirin.”

  John exited the conference room, the panting dog in his arms. Jojo was trying to lick his face.

  “You little devil,” Gladys said. “This is my girl Jojo.”

  “I gathered.” I stared after Beau. He was antisocial at YuriCorp and barely human on site, but asking customers what the hell they were doing in their own place of business was bizarre, even for him. “Nice to meet you, Jojo.”

  I shook the dog’s paw while John cuddled her. I was a bona fide cat person, and Dan had always been a cat person. Jojo looked kind of feline, if cats had muzzles like thumbs and hair like dust mops. Her short legs pistoned in midair when John handed her to Gladys.

  “If you’ll excuse us, we have to finish some paperwork so we can grab lunch,” I said. “See you tomorrow, Gladys.”

  “Jojo should be all better by then. I don’t know what got into her today. She’s normally my quiet mouse.” Gladys kissed the dog on top of the head. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

  Jojo grinned a doggy grin.

  As soon as Gladys left, I closed the conference room door.

  “Beau is freaking me out,” I said. A misgiving that had been nagging me like a tiny plastic thread in your seam poked itself into my mouth. “Why do we all have headaches? Pavarti had a headache the day she burned out.”

  “Mine came on with the cold.” John returned to his seat and took a sandwich out of our private cooler. “It’s probably allergies. Atlanta has different geography than Nashville, and I’ve heard quite a few Wyse employees complaining about the pollen count.”

  “I don’t have allergies. Of course my headache’s not that bad.” Maybe we’d all swapped a cold virus, the unexciting way. “Did you know Beau spied on my interview yesterday?”

  “Did he?” John bit into the sandwich and chewed. “He seems to want to spend a lot of time with you.”

  That’s what John found noteworthy about Beau’s activities? “John, he lied to me. He told me chameleons can’t go invisible, especially not with other chameleons, but he was right there and I didn’t know it.”

  “If you weren’t specifically trying to spot him, it’s no surprise you overlooked him.” John pursed his lips as if tasting something sour. I was pretty sure it wasn’t his cheese and tomato sandwich. “He’s that good.”

  I hated the thoughts of Beau being that good, too, so I argued. “I was three feet from him. I looked right at him. He accused me of not being a chameleon.”

  “Technically, you’re not. You’re still in training.” John’s sour expression lingered. “He’s skilled enough to hold a fade in motion. He can also fade the area around him, including furniture and people. One of the few who can. He could have been anywhere in the room.”

  Lou had finished training me to use the Registry last month, inasmuch as the common supra is allowed. As soon as her back had been turned, I’d looked up Beau. The Registry had ejected me for attempting to download classified information.

  Hacker, I was not.

  Beau’s skill level seemed to give John heartburn. It had given me a heart attack, so the parallel was evident. “Is proto-invisibility his secret talent?”

  “No, that’s simply a high-level chameleon skill.” John wrapped half his sandwich in cellophane. “We know he has a concealed ability, but that’s it. He signed papers to the effect it would never be used to the detriment of YuriCorp.” He squeezed the nape of his neck.

  “Don’t you think it’s suspicious?” I asked. Beau had looked way too comfortable sprawled in that chair yesterday. I’d almost shoved my feet into his lap. “Yesterday he does this invisible thing, and today you two have killer headaches. I asked if he knew anything about Pavarti and Adam and he said no, but what if he’s a leak, not a saboteur? I’m not convinced we’re dealing with just one person here. The information swiper wouldn’t have time to chase us from site to site.”

  “You think the mole and the saboteur aren’t connected?” John’s eyes even seemed pinkish with the presumed allergy headache. “That means the mole isn’t responsible for people getting hurt.”

  Normally John wouldn’t discuss the mole with me, but I guess even he knew the clock was ticking. And we did have aural privacy. The front half of the conference room was protected by a travel blanket as part of the new security protocol, which we switched on as needed—but not enough to give us headaches. Any fleas and rats in the vicinity had better look out.

  “Whether or not they’re working together, the mole’s still responsible.” I pushed John’s box of antimicrobial tissues toward him. “People shouldn’t steal other people’s information.”

  “No.” He rested his head in his hands, but I didn’t think it was due to me. I hoped it wasn’t due to me.

  Would he freak out if I offered to rub his shoulders? I didn’t have Roxanne’s magic touch, but I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on him and letting him know what he was missing. “I should question Beau further.”

  “You should give it a break.” John’s tone was as dry as his nose was not. “You weren’t especially smooth, asking outright about Pavarti and Adam. He’s not stupid, Cleo. He knows there’s something up with your DNA. He knows Yuri favors you. He knows YuriCorp is under attack. Now you’re asking questions.”

  “Everyone’s worried about the company, and a lot of people are asking questions.” I wondered if my friend Sheila had been sending them tsk tsk notes as well.

  “If you don’t trust Beau, why do you keep asking to bring him in?”

  “I don’t personally want him in the inner circle.” I wanted him to know I was good at something so he’d have to eat a few of his nastier words. “It would just be easier if he knew.”

  John sighed and finger combed his hair into place since his rubbing had disheveled it. “Beau Walker has been with us for years. Yuri chose not to bring him in when we started having problems a year ago, and he has his reasons.”

  “Probably because nobody good can have that bad of a personality.”

  “You can’t point fingers because you dislike people, Cleo.”

  “He behaved in a suspicious manner. Sneaking around like that.” I crossed my arms. “Can I help it if I’m not James Bond?”

  “No, you’re not.” John tossed me my sandwich.

  I’d always considered myself clever. Able to pry the truth out of people with minimal effort. That was before I was being paid to pry the truth out of people. Maybe it had something to do with how much more important it was to find these particular truths. And maybe the only part of me that was clever was my ability.

  “He’s hiding something. I can feel it.” The more I insisted it was true, the more convinced I was. Despite the fact Beau hadn’t intended to hurt me yesterday, he knew more than he was telling—more than I’d been able to read. I’d ruled him out early and hadn’t quizzed him further.

  That would change.

  “We’ll discuss this later,” John said in a tone that left no doubt he’d prefer to never discuss it again. He revolved his chair away from me and started shuffling papers.

  I unwrapped my sandwich. We made them out of the supplies in the locked cooler at the hotel, where we’d installed alarm systems that would alert God and
everyone if a person entered the room without the proper code. No maids allowed, that was for sure. All part of Al’s new security protocols to make sure we weren’t hit by obvious sabotage like amp. Or Ex-Lax.

  Which made me wonder—if the bad guys wanted to take out YuriCorp, why were they only hitting us on assignment? We’d be easier prey, more vulnerable, in our home towns. If Beau had anything to do with it, he was right there, working with us every day, aware of our addresses and blood types.

  “I’m next?” John asked suddenly.

  I swallowed a mouthful of bread and ham. “What?”

  He held up a sheet of yellow paper with the words “You’re next” scrawled in bold black handwriting. “Did you write this?”

  “No.” If I’d sent John a note, it would have had lip prints on it. Okay, not really. It would have been a text. “Wait, I saw that in Nashville. Remember when I knocked the personnel files over? We had it then. What do you think it means?”

  John flipped the paper over, inspecting the back. “The downtownies prepared most of our files. They don’t use legal paper. Several researchers have issues with the color yellow.”

  I opened my mouth to ask what supra power prevented one from using yellow paper when his cell phone buzzed in his hip holster.

  “Arlin,” he said into the mouthpiece. “What? You’re kidding! You’re not kidding. We’ll be right there.”

  I didn’t like how pale he’d turned. “What is it?”

  “It’s Beau. He’s been burned out.”

  Chapter 15

  Do You Like Your Bacon Crispy or Chewy?

  When we found him, Beau was sprawled in the back seat of the company car, his legs sticking out the door.

  “Walker!” John nudged his foot. “Are you okay?”

  He didn’t answer. John whipped out his phone and gestured at me. “Cleo, check his pulse. See if he’s unconscious. I need to call this in.”

  I’d known this was a possibility, but Beau? Of all people, I’d never imagined him as anybody’s victim. If the saboteur could get him, he could get anybody.

  I had this urge to run screaming back into Wyse Money, but the idiot who ran away from the murder scene was always the next to go in the movies. How could this have happened?

  “I don’t know how to take a pulse,” I admitted.

  “Start by seeing if he’s breathing.” John paced the car’s perimeter in a tight march, eyes darting back and forth, and hit speed dial on his phone. His nostrils flared as he tested for scents.

  The door near Beau’s head was locked. Shaky with anxiety, I clambered onto his prostrate body from his feet. He had to have been conscious long enough to call John. Had he dragged himself into the car or had somebody shoved him here? I’d have picked a trunk to hide a body, not a back seat.

  “Beau, are you all right?” My voice cracked. As much as I disliked him, the thought of him in a coma, in pain, really upset me. “Hey. Hey, wake up.” I patted his cheek, his dark skin surprisingly soft to the touch. “Come on, Beau. Please be okay.”

  He cracked open a single, bleary eye. “Get off me. You weigh a ton.”

  “Asshole.” My stomach flopped. “How do you feel?”

  “Cleo, it’s too hot for you to get friendly.” He closed his eye and grimaced.

  Way to greet his rescuers. I wasn’t as careful with my knees and fists when I backed out of the car. He grunted after a well-placed elbow.

  “He’s alive,” I told John. “Maybe faking.”

  “I need air,” Beau croaked. He rolled sideways, tried to grab the seat, and failed. I kicked his ankle, but he didn’t seem to have full use of his limbs.

  “Don’t lay there like a lump, somebody will notice.” I tried to block the view of the car’s interior with my body. “Did you see anybody in the parking lot with you?”

  “No.”

  Maybe seeing, or not seeing, people wasn’t the issue, considering what Beau could do. “Are you sure nobody touched you?”

  “Quit gloating and get me in the car.”

  I stuffed his noodly legs into the back, reached forward to unlock the front passenger door, and hopped in. John slipped in the driver’s seat and turned on the motor. God I hoped this wasn’t a stroke. I stared at Beau as if the strength of my brain could prevent it.

  Beau groaned. “Stop staring.”

  I didn’t.

  “What happened?” John asked. “My senses are hampered by these allergies. I don’t smell anyone besides us.”

  “Don’t know exactly,” Beau rasped. His face was turned away from me, so I couldn’t see if he was lying. “The headache just...crushed me. I blacked out.”

  “I told you!” I yelled. “Not allergies.” I fanned myself with a folder from the floor, considered fanning Beau, and decided against it.

  Beau groaned. “Cleo, if you yell again, I will kill you.”

  “Sorry.” I stared out the windows, my eyes wide to take in every detail. Was the bad guy watching us? Was he going to get us all?

  Would I even see him coming?

  “I’m taking you to the closest emergency room.” John activated the car’s GPS.

  “No,” Beau said. “It’s not a stroke. No numbness, no confusion, no blurred vision. The weakness in my arms and legs is evenly distributed.”

  “You have a headache and loss of coordination.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. We’d been well-versed in the signs. This was no time to get emotional—no time for Beau to act tough. Normal doctors could help when a burnout resulted in a stroke. “I’m really worried.”

  “I’m touched,” Beau said, sounding less and less like a victim. “Crank the a/c, Arlin.”

  “Where were you when they got you?” I asked. “That might help us figure out what happened.”

  “I don’t know. Depends on if it was a one-time event or cumulative.”

  Cumulative—that was insidious and scary, since the running theory was that the burnouts had one-time stimuli. “Are you going to get better?”

  “I don’t know. Jesus, just get me out of here! My fucking skull is going to split open.”

  “If we aren’t taking you to the hospital, Cleo and I have to return to work.” John drove out of the parking lot. “Did anybody approach you? Maybe a chameleon?”

  “Cleo already asked that,” he said. “I didn’t see anybody.”

  Had he just masked in the rear view mirror? I couldn’t tell, so I turned around to face him. “Did you take aspirin from a stranger? How about candy?”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  Stupid looking. “Did you hear anything? Smell anything? Get sprayed by anything, like a sprinkler? Walk through any suspicious drafts of air?”

  “Shut up, Cleo.” He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. “Let me die in peace.”

  “I’m going through the list you taught me.” In case there was need for it, I snagged a pen and took notes on a folder. “What do you feel right now?”

  “Headache.”

  “Same headache you’ve had since yesterday?”

  “Was I incapacitated yesterday? No, it’s not the same headache.”

  I wrote down everything pertinent he’d said so far, which amounted to “paralyzed, headache, bad attitude”. “Why did you run away when Gladys showed up with the dog?”

  “I hate dogs,” he lied.

  He probably liked animals and hated people. I tried to make eye contact with John to let him know our invalid was fibbing, but he concentrated on the road. Lunch traffic flowed around us like a heat wave.

  “I find that hard to believe,” I enunciated very clearly.

  “Damn it, Cleo, what does it matter if I hate dogs or not? My memory’s a little blurry right now. Didn’t John send me for aspirin?”

  John hadn’t sent him for meds, just said we needed them. “Why did you cuss at Gladys?”

  “I don’t want to talk. Leave me alone.”

  Man, I hated that line. It was hardly ever a lie.

  “John, how much does your he
ad hurt? If these headaches are connected, this could have been you. Doesn’t that concern you?”

  He could be next—or me. Why did that ring a bell?

  “My head’s getting better.” He glanced in the rear view mirror at Beau. “Yuri’s going to have someone here to take your place by the end of the day.”

  It seemed callous, when Beau had just been attacked, but the show did have to go on.

  “Cleo will drive you home,” John continued.

  “Me? I’m on the job.” A job that was a lot less appealing now that Beau had been jumped by the supra suckers.

  “Yuri’s sending someone to take your place, too.”

  “Drive myself,” Beau muttered.

  “Blurry vision, temporary amnesia and loss of coordination can be side effects of burnout. A supra experiencing this should not operate heavy machinery,” I quoted. Not that I relished five hours in the car with Beau, but I didn’t want him to wreck and kill himself.

  We parked at the hotel and slung Beau between us, carting him in the side door so it would raise fewer eyebrows. We had about thirty minutes before our next session at Wyse.

  A woman holding a bouquet of flowers entered the elevator with us and stood as close to the doors as possible. Once we reached the room, we draped Beau across one of the beds and John got him a glass of water for the nightstand.

  “Are you going to be all right?” he said. “I need Cleo until the others get here.”

  “Fine.” Beau half-rolled onto his side, cursed, and flopped back. “This stage should only last an hour. Turn out the lights and shut the curtains.”

  Normally, if one of my coworkers had burned out, I’d have been one hundred percent sympathetic. Part of me wanted to coddle him, but the other part, the part that had control of my mouth, couldn’t help herself.

  “Do you have to go to the bathroom?” I used the hanging stick to slide the hotel’s thick curtains closed. “We can set the ice bucket beside you.”

  “Get out.” Beau’s shoulder twitched and his arm flopped upwards, over his eyes.

  “Is it okay for us to leave him?” I asked John.

  “We have a job to do. If we don’t involve the paramedics, we can’t explain this particular hold-up to our customers.” John turned out the lights. “We’re safe at Wyse.”