by V. B. Larson
She nodded and smiled vaguely, hinting with the incline of her head that he should keep going. He caught the look and must have realized that she was doing some real thinking, because he snapped back to the notebook and dropped the levity from his voice.
“The presence of the police-band emissions detector-” here he lifted a small black box from his pocket and placed it on the table, “- seems to support the idea that Nog had recently been present,” Johansen paused for a moment to finger the box. “This is a nice piece of homebrew work, the electronics techs told me. It seemed like they were impressed, almost like they wanted to hire this Nog guy when we caught up with him.”
Vasquez nodded. “He’s clearly a genius.”
“It almost lends credibility to Vance’s claims.”
Vasquez looked at him. “You think Nog released the virus?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
She nodded. “Pray continue.”
He did, detailing the possible presence of Vance at Brenda’s and ending with their odd collision with Sarah Vance at Ingles place and Ingles’ disappearance.
“We have put an APB out on Ingles now as well, but so far have come up with nothing,” he said, closing the notebook and downing the rest of his margarita. “There’s still no sign of Vance’s kid, either.”
She took another sip of her drink. It was half-gone now, and she was starting to feel the tingling, relaxing effects of the first drink she had had in weeks.
There it was. It was everything and it seemed like a big nothing. She knew now that other teams were on this investigation. There were the national security people, an FBI homicide team and possibly another team from the military. Still, though, she felt the pressure to succeed. It had started out as their case, and they had made progress, but without tangible results. They still had no arrests and they still had done nothing to halt the electronic plague that continued to damage the nation’s newest growth industry.
She closed her eyes and settled back in her chair. She ran the whole story through her head and sought an angle, an answer that might break the case like a magic shoe-size in a Sherlock Holmes story. But there was nothing, or at least she couldn’t see it. She opened her eyes again and found that Johansen watched her intently.
She glanced at him, pursed her lips and shook her head. He sat back in disappointment. He had such faith in her that it hurt to see that she had let him down. She smiled at him. He had actually believed she was about to come up with some stroke of genius, some witty connection that everyone else had missed. Such faith made him more endearing.
She sighed and drank more. The whole thing had grown too big. She had even begun to believe that they themselves were being followed by agents, with orders to jump in when something broke. That was both reassuring and disturbing. It meant the brass trusted them to birddog the quarry, but not to make the collar themselves. She supposed that their superiors were just being cautious, as there was too much at stake to let one team’s pride get in the way.
“You know,” she said, running her finger around the top of her margarita glass and knocking the crust of salt off as she went, “I don’t think we’re going to solve this one tonight.”
He laughed. “In that case, I’ve got just the thing.”
She looked up then, with eyebrows raised. She caught something in his eye-a twinkle you might say, she thought to herself-but then she chided herself for having such ideas. She turned her eyes back down to her drink. Her finger still ran around the top of the glass. It was beginning to make a singing, moaning sound now that she liked.
“Tell me,” she said quietly.
Johansen grinned and opened his mouth, but snapped it shut again as two men appeared at their booth. Their haircuts and their suits said it all: They were government agents, through-and-through. Neither man was smiling.
“Agent Vasquez? Agent Johansen?” asked the taller of the two. He was a black man with a mustache and a set of large rings on his fingers.
“Yes?” Johansen answered. He automatically put his hands on the table and chair back, as if ready to throw himself to his feet.
“I’m Agent Verr out of Virginia,” he said, flashing his ID and badge. “I’m here to tell you that my team is taking over this investigation. Here are my orders, and yours.”
He presented them with piece of paper. Vasquez eyed it, realizing it was a fax, of all things. How many years had it been since she had seen a fax? With the internet problems, they had gone back in time twenty years overnight.
Johansen took the fax somewhat reluctantly. Vasquez followed Verr’s eyes as they swept over the dinner table, pausing at the margaritas and possibly Johansen’s popped-open pants. She felt a flash of hot embarrassment. It was a sickening feeling that she wasn’t used to.
“I would appreciate it if you could provide a briefing in the morning,” continued Verr after a short silence. His eyes ran over the table again and pointedly looked at the drinks. “At say, ten o’clock? We could meet you at the police headquarters.”
“Make it seven,” snapped Vasquez. “We’ll be there.”
Verr pursed his lips and nodded. “Seven it is, then.”He left without offering to shake hands.
“What a prick,” said Vasquez, staring after his back. “He did that just to show us he could.”
“What?”
“Coming in here like that. Showing us that he could find us at any time, like it was nothing for him. He could’ve waited until we reported in tomorrow, but he just couldn’t wait to tell us he had taken away our assignment.”
Johansen sighed. “We just took too long, that’s all. The brass got nervous and decided to make a change. Any change would do, we can’t take it personally.”
“Well, I do,” growled Vasquez.
Johansen read the fax. They both glanced at them and grimaced.
“It’s true. We’re relieved,” said Johansen. “Funny word, that. Relieved. Hmph. More like: ‘found incompetent’, or ‘summarily forgotten’, or ‘discovered to have screwed pooch’.”
Vasquez gulped the last of her drink and sat back in her chair. Maybe the word was right. Maybe it would be a relief to give up on this case. She pursed her lips, not liking the idea. Then she looked back at Johansen and a new idea formed.
“What were you about to suggest before they arrived?” she asked him.
He glanced at her and blinked for a moment in confusion. “Oh, that maybe we should go to the bar for another drink.”
“An excellent suggestion,” she smiled.
His face slowly melted as they eyed one another for several quiet seconds. Then she felt another hot flash of embarrassment over what she was thinking. She got up and headed for the bar. He picked up the bill and followed her.
Events flowed smoothly and naturally for the rest of the evening. First, they had more drinks. They stuck to margaritas, and by the time she had finished her third he was done with his fifth. She didn’t drink much, and as she was small, the effects left her floating somewhere just above the surface of her barstool.
Together, without any planning conversation, they headed across the street to the Ramada where they were currently staying. The flowing river of white headlights and red taillights that formed I-80 looked surreal and almost magical. Johansen stood beside her as they looked down the grassy embankment at the roaring swooshing cars. A breeze came up and ruffled her hair, which had somehow come down and now hung all around her face in a soft circle.
She looked at him, smiled and put her finger to her lips. He smiled back, looking mildly perplexed and curious. She knew this was absolutely not like her, but she didn’t care. She thought that Johansen must be all but baffled at any kind of playfulness, and the thought made her smile.
She took his hand and led him up the concrete steps to her room. After a few seconds of fumbling with the key and giggling, they slipped into the room and shut the door behind them.
In the dark room he reached for the light switch, but she put a hand on hi
s to stop him. At that moment-at that touch-she felt a real electric tingle. It was strong, almost magnetic. There, in the dark, her fingers felt incredibly small and delicate against his blocky hand. She took his hand away from the light switch and guided it up to cup her left breast. That one was slightly larger than her right and she hoped like a high-schooler that he would be impressed by the weight and firmness of it. She could hear his breathing now. It had grown heavy with desire.
Johansen needed no more encouragement. He swept her up for their first kiss. It was hot, wet and suffocatingly long. When it was over, she wondered how they had possibly held out for so many months.
After that, things progressed quickly. Soon he was on the bed with her, and she was glad she was still on the pill, despite nearly a year’s worth of abstinence. As gently and delicately as he could with his great weight and strength, he ravaged her.
They kissed hotly for a time, still saying not a word. It was much better that way, she knew. To hear his voice might ruin everything, might make her freeze up and realize what she was doing, how crazy it was.
She learned that his belly wasn’t flabby. It was as rock-hard and ribbed as his back. Years of habitually working out in the gym had given him a body beneath those ill-fitting suits that was a pleasure to her senses.
When she finally realized that her panties were off and he was entering her, she gave a gasp of surprise and mild pain. He was big, even bigger than she had expected. She was a small woman, and out of practice. She knew that if he thrust with abandon it was going to hurt a lot.
He seemed to sense this and proceeded to move his bulk over her slowly and probed only shallowly at first. Only when she began to moan and clutch at him did he allow himself the luxury of sinking in more deeply.
He came quickly, but she beat him to it. She surprised herself, as she rarely had an orgasm during just straight intercourse without additional stimulation. It felt wonderful.
After he sighed and slid off of her, she spooned herself up against him and finally felt fully relaxed. She grunted as she checked the alarm. It was set for six, which would have to do.
She feared that he would want to begin pillow-talking, that he would want to know what this all meant, and many other questions that she had no answers to. She was greatly relieved when he kept up their pact of silence.
For the first time in years, she fell asleep without fussing with her hair nor brushing her teeth.
Her last thought was of a single word: Relieved.
… 12 Hours and Counting…
The time for “the talk” didn’t come in the morning, either. Sex again, instead. Even before the alarm went off, she found him gently touching her back and leaving tiny cold spots with his kisses. He entered her again and soon she was clutching the sheets and thrusting herself back onto him with an animal rhythm.
He went back to his room later to dress, leaving her only with a long kiss at the door. She smiled after him, letting her head loll to one side. She couldn’t believe a man could be so smart. He had said nothing. Nothing at all. There was simply nothing for her to attach her fears to, nothing to worry about all day. He had voiced no expectations or concerns. The warm glow of the night was complete, and it was up to her to decide when she wanted to talk.
She concluded that the man was a genius. Chuckling to herself as she showered and dressed, she wondered if she might be in love.
After a gulped breakfast, they headed for the police station, not wanting to be late. They beat Verr and his partner by a long shot. At first, she was pleased when they didn’t show up right away. Better that the other team should be late, that gave them an advantage.
By the time the eight o’clock shift of cops arrived and they were still waiting in the conference room, however, she was furious. Uniforms walked by the open door with their coffee and donuts and casually gave them a look of mixed amusement and pity.
She saw two of them nudge one another and rudely point their way. One of them raised his eyebrows as he delivered a punch line. The other guffawed so violently that he coffee dribbled onto his pants. Setting the white Styrofoam cup on a desk, he continued to laugh as he brushed off his pants.
She got up and slammed the conference room door.
“This is intolerable. They plan to screw us good with this one.”
“Yep,” said Johansen. He leaned back in his chair and watched her stalk about the room. She noticed that he was leering and underneath she enjoyed it, but was too pissed off to let that come to the surface.
“What exactly does that relief order say?” she demanded for perhaps the twelfth time in the last hour.
He somehow had managed to keep from becoming ruffled throughout this entire affair. She knew it had a great deal to do with last night, with her. He positively looked like the coyote that had finally caught and eaten that damned road-runner. It both gratified her and slightly irritated her to know this.
“We are summarily relieved of this case,” he greatly paraphrased.
“What case?”
“The location and apprehension of suspects in the release of a new, hitherto unknown virus upon the internet.”
She paced again, nodding. “Okay, okay.”
“Okay what?”
“It didn’t say anything about the missing kid case.”
“So?”
“So they missed the meeting. We’re going to do something,” she said, grabbing up her purse and briefcase.
“What?”
“Screw them instead.”
… 8 Hours and Counting…
Ray knew the end was near when the water entered the trunk. It was cold, but it actually felt good as it soaked his back. He had managed to roll onto his back so that he wouldn’t drowned immediately. He thought seriously about trying to get a drink. He had been raging with thirst all night long, but he dared not turn his face into the water lest he slip and die writhing like a slug that inches too close to the edge of a swimming pool and drowns.
Perhaps, he thought, as the water filled his tiny prison, it would soak into the tape and loosen it somewhat. He didn’t bet on it, though. Duct tape wasn’t made with paper, and the adhesive didn’t loosen immediately either when it came in contact with water. It was designed to hold things together, and it did a damned good job. There were rips in his tape cocoon now, places that he had managed to rub up against sharp edges of the metal trunk, but the tape still held him firmly.
At least the water keeps the dust down, he thought to himself. He wanted to chuckle, but that might be a fatal move.
Lifting his legs together like a mermaid in a bad movie, he kicked the side of the trunk three times. He had found a spot, through a night of experimentation, that was bowed and hollow like a drum. It made a loud sound that probably annoyed a few crows in the orchard, but had little other effect. Still, it was all he could do.
Then he lay back in the cool water that covered much of his body now. His greatest regret was that he had been unable to help his son.
Another few minutes passed. His body grew adjusted to the cool water and he floated in it somewhat. Soon, however, there would be no space to breathe between the surface of the water and the carpeted floor of the overturned Lincoln’s trunk, which now formed the ceiling of his coffin.
He kicked again, and this time the sound was greatly muffled. The water had risen to where it was dampening any sound he could make. That, almost more than anything, made him give up. If no one could possibly hear him, then he was truly doomed.
He listened to the water as it lapped and gurgled over and around the car. Distantly, he could hear the drone of the big pump house up on the bank nearby. It grew even darker in his prison as the light from outside was cut off. He thought it would be even more grim if the water rose just high enough to cut off his air supply-but not enough to drown him. He wondered if he could suck in a breath from the cracks in the wheel wells.
He wanted to do something — anything. Just to wait calmly for death was maddening. He decided t
o savor his last moments of life with a farewell drink. At least he need not die thirsty. He squirmed to one side a bit and sucked in a refreshing draught of cool, gritty water. It tasted like the coldest beer on the hottest day of his life.
He slipped and went in too deeply. For a panicky second, he became that silver slug, thrashing its last in the swimming pool.
Then he had control of himself again. He grunted and heaved himself safely onto his back again. An absurd rush of pride coursed through him as he licked at his tape-burned lips. He had gotten a drink and managed to cheat death for another few minutes. He felt an odd elation at the success. Even though it was hopeless, he kicked the trunk wall again. The sound was that of a great bell tolling at the bottom of the sea.
When he was done kicking, he lay back in the frothing water, sucking air deeply, but it seemed that he couldn’t get enough. He felt exhausted all of a sudden. Could he be running out of air? Panic gripped him, and he kicked more.
This was it, he felt sure. Things were quieter now, sounds were more muffled. He sensed that the water had crested over the top of the car, that he was surviving in an air pocket that couldn’t last as the water deepened further and the oxygen depleted.
He lost himself to panic for a time. He kicked in a frenzy at the trunk wall. He gasped for air, almost blacked out, then felt sick and faint. He fought not to vomit and drown ignobly in his own puke.
He fell back to rest, at the point of exhaustion. It was then that he noticed the water seemed a bit lower than before. He waited, trying to control his gulping of the air. It was so hard to tell what was going on in his cold dark tomb. Several minutes passed, and then a wonderful thing happened.
The lights went back on in the trunk. Daylight shimmied a finger of greenish, reflective light into the trunk again. He would have whooped if he could have. Then he listened closely, but realized he couldn’t hear the pump anymore. It had been shut off.