Charlene pulled her hand from the pocket of a tattered men’s overcoat. It was time to consult The Thumb.
The Thumb used to be the resting place of the Antichrist who had taunted and tortured her with evil thoughts. She had cast him out, gouging her thumb with a screwdriver she’d found at a construction site, working it back and forth to be sure to get the root. He had tried to come back, pulsing a code through her thumb to infect her brain with more evil thoughts.
Then the angel appeared. He cleaned The Thumb and made her pure. Now The Thumb was a tiny tabernacle where the holy of holies resided.
Now it was her guide to righteousness.
She brought The Thumb up to her nose and sniffed. She flicked out her tongue and touched the stump’s shiny puckered top. Held it aloft. A tiny breeze cooled its left side.
East. She should go east, just like the Magi seeking the newborn King. It made perfect sense.
She turned toward the maze of alleys, making her way toward the warren of homeless camps.
Then she heard something. A mewling voice. A hand-patting voice.
She stopped, let her head fall to one shoulder and listened, focusing on the sound beneath the voices that were always bickering in her head.
“Who is it?” she hissed. “Show yourself, you little pricks. I’m on a mission from God.”
Last week’s copy of Us fluttered in the recycle bin beside her, turning a Kristen Stewart story into a flipbook of open-mouthed gazes and frowny pouts. Next to it, she spied a bulging Hefty bag, leaking something orange and putrid from its seams. Maybe there was something good in there, too. The prize in the Cracker Jack box.
She reached for the bag.
The mewl. The hand-pat. The outside voices again.
Charlene followed the building to its corner, then peered around. She gasped. An angel like the one who had exiled the Antichrist, like the one who would give her wings. Garbed in white, he bent over a woman who was puddling in her own tears.
Charlene frowned. The woman had no concept of propriety. When to “let it be done to me,” like Mary said to Gabriel. She’d learn, though. Soon enough, the woman would learn the only way to salvation was to let the angel purify her.
The shakes had started right after she pulled out of the Rx parking lot. She wasn’t afraid, she told herself, but her skin felt as if it were crawling with thousands of wriggling insects. Maggie drove a mile and a half, then pulled over on the side of the road and called Constantine. She listened as the phone rang. She wasn’t sure what she was going to tell him if he answered. That she had nearly been attacked? That the guy she liked at work had leapt to her rescue, leaving her feeling both resentful and grateful? That she wanted to hear her best friend’s voice, to talk over something she could trust only him to understand?
It didn’t matter because he didn’t answer.
Maggie drove home, feeling as if the tether that had bound her and Constantine had frayed and broken.
He hadn’t known she needed him. He hadn’t felt her pain. He hadn’t even answered the damn phone.
She knew she was being irrational. She didn’t care.
Maggie parked in front of the apartment house and dragged herself through her door, locking it behind her. She fell into bed without brushing her teeth or washing her face, her mind and body exhausted.
Sleep came in broken bits and pieces. At nine o’clock, Maggie dragged herself out of bed and headed to a small coffeehouse to meet Roselyn and Zartar. It was the last thing she felt like doing, but they’d already planned it and she was sure they were waiting for her.
She’d just have to shake off last night and move on.
That was her specialty, wasn’t it? Pretend she didn’t feel anything, and if she did, cram down those feelings with whatever was handy. School. Work. Runs. Movies. Constantine.
Maybe not Constantine. He hadn’t even returned her voicemail.
Roselyn and Zartar were already seated with tiny cups in hand when Maggie arrived. Maggie waved, ordered at the counter, then dropped onto an old comfortable sofa.
Zartar wore skinny jeans, a shrunken tee that lived up to its name and red wedges. She wiped lipstick from the lip of her cup. “Glad you’re here, Mags. We thought you might ditch us like last night.”
Maggie sputtered with indignation. “I didn’t ditch you.”
Zartar arched a perfectly groomed brow. “Well, you certainly left quickly. And without telling anyone.” She sipped her latte, wiped the cup, shrugged. “It just seemed… surprising.”
“What about you?” Maggie could hear the defensiveness in her voice. “Last time I saw you, you were playing Bounce the Cell Phone. It exploded into about a million pieces, then you ran from the room.” She raised her own eyebrow. “I think you may have been crying.”
“I wasn’t crying,” Zartar said, her voice growing louder. “I was just upset.” Her eyes slid to Maggie, then to Roselyn. She bit her lip. “About my brother.”
“Quelle surprise,” Roselyn said under her breath.
“What?” Maggie said.
“That’s French for ‘I think your brother’s a dumbass,’” Zartar said, looking pointedly at Roselyn. “Ari’s had some trouble in the past, which has hurt his popularity with some of my friends. Drugs, mostly. You name it, he’s smoked, snorted, injected or swallowed it. So, yeah, I’m worried about him, real worried.” She stopped, bit her lip again. Harder. The soft skin blanched where an eyetooth pressed. Her eyes met Maggie’s. They were red-rimmed and shiny. Zartar blinked rapidly, took a sip of coffee. “Back to you. You take off early for a hot date with your cute just-friend or something?”
Maggie hesitated.
“Come on,” Roselyn wheedled. “You can tell us.”
Maggie looked into the faces of her two new friends. She wanted a second opinion on what had happened with Miles.
Or in this case, a third opinion.
When Constantine hadn’t returned her call, she had called Fiona, who had insisted she go to HR to report him for harassment. In the light of day, Maggie wondered how her complaint would go over with Rxcellance’s testosterone-laden management team, especially since the star of her grievance was the spawn of the company’s head honcho.
Zartar crossed her arms across her generous bosom. “Out with it, Maggie. Something’s clearly bothering you.”
Maggie cleared her throat. “Something happened after I left the party. Out in the parking lot.”
Roselyn and Zartar leaned in.
“What?” Roselyn asked.
“Well, I kind of had a run-in with Miles.”
Zartar laughed, a harsh, bitter bark. “A run-in, huh? As in he wanted to run his dick into your vagina?”
“Zartar!” Roselyn gasped, aghast.
Zartar jutted her chin out.
“Am I right, Maggie? Junior try to test the limits of nepotism?”
Maggie could feel emotion swelling up, threatening to spill over. She grabbed her coffee cup and took a long swig, thankful it had already cooled, hopeful the caffeine could quell her feelings the same way baking soda got out wine stains.
She nodded. “He didn’t get far because Ethan showed up.” She folded her arms. “Not that I needed him to rescue me,” she added.
Zartar’s mouth twisted into a smile. “How chivalrous. Did he challenge Miles to a duel?”
“No, but he sort of chased him away.”
Zartar considered this. “Interesting.” She looked into her coffee, then at Maggie. “Miles has been harassing women since the day he trailed in on his daddy’s coattails. But the girls are either too afraid to say something or they just—” Zartar made her hands into fireworks. “Poof. Disappear. Someone needs to stand up to that asshole, report him for what he really is: a predator.”
Roselyn shifted in her seat. Crossed her legs. Then recrossed them. “I don’t know,�
�� she said, pulling at the floppy bow around her neck. “I mean, couldn’t she get in trouble? I don’t want Maggie to get in trouble.” Roselyn looked like she wanted to recede into the wall behind her.
“Why would she get in trouble?” Zartar snapped. “She didn’t do anything. Miles is the criminal here.”
“Well, I don’t know if he’s done anything criminal…” Roselyn began.
Zartar turned on her, eyes blazing. Roselyn shrank back even farther. “That’s right, Roz. You don’t. You don’t know shit about what Miles has or hasn’t done.” She turned back to Maggie. Smoothed her hair and her composure. “But let’s leave it up to Maggie. It was her ‘run-in.’ It’s her choice. You do what you want.” She assessed Maggie, coolly calculating her mettle. “No judgment from us. But if you decide to file a complaint, I’d go to Roy first. HR has been historically useless.”
Maggie wondered how Zartar knew that.
She worried that she was right.
On Monday morning, Maggie stationed herself near Roy’s office.
She patted the low chignon she had secured with one of her mother’s vintage combs and checked the clock on her phone. She’d been waiting nearly ten minutes for Roy to emerge from his office, pretending to get documents from the printer, getting a drink from the water cooler.
She was running out of reasons to hover near his door.
Maybe I should forget the whole thing. I can’t afford to cause trouble. Besides, Miles didn’t really do anything. I’m probably blowing this way out of proportion.
Maggie turned to go. Roy’s door swung wide, revealing a crowded trophy wall and an empty desktop. He strode out, stainless steel coffee cup in hand.
“Hey, Maggie,” he said jovially. “You look as nervous as a rooster on Sunday.”
“Oh,” she laughed uneasily. “I’m fine. I was just wondering…” She paused to clutch at the courage that seemed to be seeping away. “I was wondering if I could talk with you for a minute.”
He gave a surreptitious look at his watch, shut his door and began walking again. “Sure, if you can manage a walk and talk. I’m late for a meeting.”
A sexual harassment allegation in the hall. Not exactly ideal.
“Maybe we should talk in your office?” she asked his retreating form. “It’ll just take a second.”
“No time,” he called over his shoulder. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”
Maggie trotted after him. “Well, I’ve...” She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “I’ve been having some problems with another employee.”
“Oh?” Roy furrowed his brow thoughtfully, going full-on TV dad. “What kind of problems?”
Maggie swallowed hard. “With Miles Montgomery. I guess I’d call it sexual harassment—”
Roy stopped short. Maggie almost ran into him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He waved his hands, an umpire telling the batter he was outta there. “I thought you were going to tell me about a real problem. Someone not pulling his weight. Safety issues. Not some sandbox squabble about an off-color joke or a compliment about your hair.”
“But—” Maggie closed her mouth. Opened it again. She felt like a ventriloquist’s doll. Her mouth moved. Roy’s words came out.
“I don’t cotton to people who make trouble or create drama or fail to solve problems on their own,” he was saying. “I hope there isn’t an aspect about your job that you can’t handle.”
Maggie stood frozen, her mouth stuck in the open position. “No, not at all,” she finally managed.
He hitched up his pants. “Good,” he said. “Because that would be a damn shame.” He gave her a pointed look, then chewed the inside of his cheek. “I will say something to Miles, though. Let him know that he made you…uncomfortable.”
Roy talking to Miles suddenly seemed like a terrible idea.
“Oh. No, Mr. Hubbins, that won’t be necessary. I—”
Roy turned on his heel and retreated into the bunker of Conference Room B at the end of the hall. Maggie heard a hail of greetings emanate from within. Then the door closed.
Maggie slunk back to her desk and collapsed into her chair. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, ignoring Fiona’s voice in her head warning of ruined eye makeup and premature wrinkles.
Maggie barely registered a quiet thump, but then her elbow brushed against something. She took her hands from her eyes and saw a large manila envelope on her desk. She stood and peered over the cubicle wall to see who had delivered it. Her coworkers were all seated, working quietly at their desks.
She returned her attention to the envelope. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. It was thick, bulging in the middle, the corners turned down as if in protest against its bloated midsection.
She opened the envelope and shook out a plain brown folder. She paged slowly through the contents.
Target identification. Compound assays. Toxicity.
There were reams of data related to drug discovery, yet nothing to identify what was being developed. No compound number. No memos. No reports. No notes.
Strange.
Yet there was something familiar about the data, something that resonated like the echo of a bell rung long ago. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.
Maggie’s phone chimed. Another meeting reminder.
Maggie’s stomach cramped. A feeling of unease wrapped around her heart, squeezed. She took a deep breath, picked up the phone and tapped the screen. The photo of another stranger appeared.
Bad lighting, gray backdrop and an awkward pose suggested that the image was used for a photo ID. The woman pictured was in her mid-thirties, clad in a body-conscious gray blazer and a ruffled blouse so voluminous it threatened to eat her head. She had ash blonde hair, hazel eyes and fine features frozen in an expression of cool self-reliance. The vibe was intellectual, studious. A trifecta of brains, beauty and bottle blonde.
Maggie tapped the screen again. Beneath the photo, the familiar text appeared:
MEETING REMINDER
TIME: Monday, 9:00 p.m. – 11 p.m.
Maggie felt as if her blood had grown cold. “Please be alive,” Maggie whispered to the woman in her phone. “Please be alive and stay that way.”
The soft swish of the elevator door heralded the entrance of someone to the floor. In her peripheral vision, Maggie saw a woman step onto the landing and extend her hand. James Montgomery stepped into view, took the woman’s hand and pumped it vigorously. The woman glanced Maggie’s way and smiled.
Maggie stared, her mouth half-open, her mind working frantically to connect fuzzy dots. The dots suddenly converged.
The woman with Montgomery was the same woman Maggie had just seen on her phone.
Chapter 12
Maggie wanted to stand, to talk to the woman, to warn her that her phone had told her something terrible was going to happen. But she sat immobile and mute. Her nervous system had gone on a coffee break.
Then as quickly as she’d frozen, Maggie thawed. She sprang to her feet, desperate to talk to the woman. Her hand bumped her mug of coffee. Black-brown liquid sloshed onto her desk. A mini Exxon Valdez.
Maggie ripped open her desk drawer and began sopping up the liquid with cafeteria napkins. The woman looked at Maggie, wrinkled her forehead in puzzlement, then swaggered down the hallway.
Maggie groaned and continued the mop-up. With the spill finally contained, she peeked around the corner of her cubicle wall.
The woman walked toward the room Roy had entered moments before. The door opened. James Montgomery appeared. Maggie squinted, trying to make out the details of the room’s beige interior. She saw a carafe of water, a tray of muffins, a hat perched on the polished conference table, a couple of suit jackets thrown over the backs of chairs. Montgomery ushered the woman in with gallant flair, then closed the door.
Maggie exi
ted her work area and walked toward the conference room. She stopped at the water cooler, picked a paper cup from its plastic tree and filled it to the brim. She drank slowly, straining to catch any scrap of conversation that might slip beneath the door. She was becoming an expert at loitering.
She heard the rabble-rabble of muffled voices. One voice was high-pitched, presumably the woman from the reminder app. Two others had lower timbres. One of the male voices was surely Montgomery’s. Big, booming. The other was also male but quieter, more subdued. And somehow familiar.
Roy? She couldn’t detect a Southern accent. Then again, she was separated by a slab of cherry wood. If only she could make out the words or hear more clearly, she could—
“Hey, Maggie.” Tommy from her lab group brushed by her. His arms hugged a stack of three-ring binders.
Maggie choked on her water, drooling onto her shirt. “Hey, Tommy,” she said cheerfully after her fit of coughing had passed.
“Heading down to the lab?” Tommy asked.
“Yep. I’ll be right there. Just pausing for some liquid refreshment.” She hoisted the now-empty paper cup. Exhibit A. She tried to mop up the drool on her shirt with one hand.
“Cool. See ya there,” he said as he walked to the elevator.
Maggie waited until he was out of sight, then edged back toward the door. She listened. The voices were quieter now. She couldn’t hear anything other than the soft hum of fluorescent lights.
The door to the conference room yawned open. Maggie hurried back to her cubicle, disappearing behind the wheat-colored partition just as the blonde woman emerged from Montgomery’s office alone, traipsing out on impossibly high heels, her knees conjoined by a very tight black pencil skirt. Maggie thought for a moment. Then followed her.
“Um, miss? Ma’am?” Maggie said softly. “Excuse me?” she said, louder this time.
Protocol Page 9