Terminated

by Ray Daniel

  Jael calmly parried Dana’s blows. While this played itself out, I walked back into the dining room and picked up the gun off the floor. I turned the gun over in my hands until Jael said, “Put that down!”

  Dana, who had switched to trying to kick Jael, stopped her attack and said, “Tucker, put it down!”

  I said, “What?” I turned to Dana and Jael. They separated and pushed themselves against the hallway walls. The gun was pointing down the hallway.

  Jael said, “Put the gun down. It’s dangerous.”

  “I was just going to make sure the safety was on.”

  Dana said, “Oh for God’s sake. It’s a Glock, it doesn’t have a safety. Put it down!”

  “Take your finger off the trigger,” said Jael, “unless you mean to shoot someone.”

  My finger had found the trigger, just like it did with toy guns. I put the Glock on the table. Jael strode over to the gun and picked it up. She removed the bullets by dropping the cartridge into her hand. Then she pulled back on the top of the gun with a click, and, to my surprise, another bullet flew out. She picked the stray bullet off the floor, and put it into the cartridge. Then she gave the cartridge and the gun to Dana who put them into her purse.

  Dana said, “I ought to arrest the two of you.”

  I said, “For what?”

  “You assaulted a federal agent.”

  I said, “And you broke into my house. You’re lucky you didn’t get shot. I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to shoot someone who breaks into my house. What were you doing here?”

  “The same thing you were doing when you broke into Roland’s office.”

  “Trying to catch a scumbag? Thanks.”

  “I was trying to get a—”

  A loud knock rapped at the door. “Boston Police Department. Open up.”

  Dana and Jael waited in the living room as I opened the door. A police officer stood before me in a blue uniform. FBI Agent Bobby Miller stood behind him.

  Bobby said to the officer, “Yup. This is the guy. I’ll take it from here.”

  The cop said to me, “So this isn’t a domestic disturbance?”

  “Nope,” I said, “it’s more of an international disturbance.”

  “Mind if I look around?” asked the cop.

  “Have at it,” I said and stepped aside.

  The cop walked into the room and saw two sweaty women in the living room. Then he looked at the chair, the cut plastic restraints on the floor, and me. He said to Jael and Dana, “Are you ladies OK? Would you like to come with me?”

  Dana said, “We’re fine, officer.” She grasped Jael around the waist in a friendly hug.

  Jael stiffened at the contact, not returning the hug. She said, “Yes. Fine.”

  The cop looked at Bobby, who gave him a wink. The cop smiled a whatever turns you on smile. He said to me, “Thank you, sir,” and left.

  When I closed the door, all hell broke loose.

  Dana and I said simultaneously, “Bobby, thank God you’re here.” Then we looked at each other in horror as we realized that Bobby had been playing us both.

  Dana pointed at me and said, “You know him?”

  I pointed at Dana and said, “You could have told me.”

  Bobby said, “I only reveal undercover operations on a need-to-know basis. And I didn’t think either of you needed to know.”

  “You thought wrong, you cocksucker!” I had never heard Dana swear. Dana the cute programmer was gone. This was Dana the FBI agent.

  Bobby said, “Calm down and just tell me what happened.”

  “This happened!” Dana thrust out her arm, displaying an angry red line where the ties had bound Dana’s wrists.

  Bobby looked at her wrists and turned to me. “Do you mind telling me about this?” he asked.

  “It was a misunderstanding,” I said. “She broke into my apartment, and Jael thought—”

  Bobby turned back to Dana, “You broke into his apartment? Why would you break into his apartment?”

  Dana said, “Don’t you tell me how to do my job. I needed a techie guy to keep my cover, and I wanted to make sure Tucker wasn’t working for the people stealing Rosetta.”

  I said, “How did you get a key?”

  Jael said, “She made a copy while you were in her hotel room. I followed her.”

  I remembered Dana going out to get me a burrito while I was coding. My keys, with my thumb drive, had been on the table in front of me. I couldn’t remember if they were in the same place when I had come out of my coding zone.

  I was going to start in on Dana about copying my key, but she was already going at it with Bobby about protocols, and whether she followed them, and what did he know anyway, and how he had screwed up her cover. Jael watched them, her eyes flicking back and forth like a cat watching mice play tennis.

  It was time for Scotch.

  I went into the kitchen and got four on-the-rocks glasses. I threw ice cubes into each and grabbed my bottle of Lagavulin out of the cabinet. Then I cupped the four glasses in my hands and put the bottle under my arm. Dana and Bobby were still yelling at each other as I walked back out into the living room.

  “Team player? Team player?” shouted Dana. “I get dropped into a company as bait for a serial killer and you want me to follow the rules?”

  Bobby said, “Just be a fucking professional.”

  “Like you’re the poster boy for professionalism.” She pointed at Jael. “You brought her into this? How fucking professional was that?”

  I put the glasses on the coffee table and poured the smoky liquor onto the ice, which cracked and popped. Jael took a glass and said, “Thank you.” I took the other drinks to where Bobby and Dana had squared off.

  I said, “Enough,” and handed each of them a Scotch. They stopped arguing and looked at me.

  I raised my glass and said, “I propose a toast to the idea that we stop screwing up and start acting like a team.”

  Bobby said, “Hear, hear,” and drank.

  Jael said, “L’chaim,” and sipped her Scotch.

  Dana looked into her drink, then downed it. She walked over to the bottle and poured another, covering her ice cubes with Lagavulin. A leather couch sat under the bay window that overlooked Follen Street. Dana sat heavily on the couch and held the cool glass to her forehead. We arrayed ourselves in a semicircle around her. I sipped my whiskey and focused on its peaty flavor.

  Bobby looked at Jael and asked, “Have you and Tucker accomplished anything?”

  Jael nodded to Dana and said, “We thought that we had caught an assassin. We were mistaken.” As Jael told Bobby what had happened tonight, Dana sipped her drink and stared into space, shaking her head in small quick arcs. I saw her eyes start to glisten. She looked at the red lines on her wrists, and then she took a drink. She seemed small and alone.

  I sat next to Dana. Our hips touched as the couch sagged. Dana ignored me, but didn’t move away. I could feel her body heat through her jeans. She gave off a faint whiff of sweat that mingled with the fragrance of the Scotch.

  I slid away from her. It wasn’t right to be so close after what I had done. The image of Dana pulling at her arms while Jael tortured her wheeled around in my head like a bat in a living room. I saw myself doing nothing to help her but fish through her purse and look at a picture of her dog. I downed my Scotch and got up to pour myself another.

  Dana looked at Jael and said, “I was sure you were going to kill me.”

  Jael said, “I am sorry.”

  I said, “I’m sorry too.”

  Dana ignored us. “I mean, somebody killed Kevin. I never thought it was Tucker, but—in the chair—I was sure I was going to die, and I started thinking about Alice. Now I know how she felt when that bastard killed her with the duct tape. Tied up, afraid, helpless, alone.” She drank and said, “It worked ou
t for me, but it didn’t work out for Alice.”

  Dana finished her Scotch and motioned her glass at me. I walked over and poured a little bit more into her glass. She slid to the right, making room for me. I sat and Dana stretched out her legs. Now her hip and knee touched mine. I maintained my composure. Dana sipped Scotch, looked around the room, and said, “Why did we stop trying to find out who murdered Alice?” Then to Bobby, “You and I got her killed, you know.”

  Bobby said, “That’s bullshit.”

  “It’s true.”

  I asked, “What do you mean?”

  Dana said, “Alice Barton was a whistleblower. She told us that someone was stealing Rosetta’s source code, and she asked for our help. She wanted to quit and go into protective custody, but we told her to stay and bring me up to speed. Once I was in place, we’d move her to a safe house.”

  I said, “Stealing Rosetta. That’s what Kevin said. He said that someone was offering to sell the source code.”

  Jael asked, “Who is selling this source code?”

  Bobby said, “We don’t fucking know. We’re wandering blind. That’s what happens when they kill the guy driving the investigation. Kevin had pieced it together the day they machine-gunned him.”

  I said, “If that source code gets out, they’d get control of the Nappy Time code I wrote. Hackers could get the Rosetta onto millions of computers and use them as a giant decryption machine. They could read anything.”

  Dana said, “We know.” She finished her drink and clinked my bottle. I covered the bottom of her glass. She took the bottle away from me and covered her cubes. She put the bottle on the floor between us. Her shoulder touched mine. “We know what’s at stake and so did Alice. She was definitely murdered by the same people who killed Kevin.”

  I said, “I thought Alice was murdered by a serial killer.”

  “She was. The serial killer is also stealing Rosetta.”

  “So that’s why Kevin knew the guy worked at MantaSoft. It wasn’t just based on the fact that the duct tape guy had changed his pattern.”

  Bobby said, “I think Kevin had the whole thing figured out. Now I don’t know where to start.”

  I said, “I do. Dana’s right. We go back and find out who killed Alice, then the whole thing will unravel.”

  “How do we do that?” asked Bobby, draining his glass.

  I said, “Let me think about it.”

  The party was over. Jael finished her drink and brought the glass into the kitchen. She rinsed her glass and put it upside down on the counter. Then she picked up the zip ties from under the chair and put them into her handbag of horrors. Finally, she slid the chair back into place as if nothing had happened. Apparently, neatness counts among assassins. I appreciated that.

  Bobby walked with Jael to the front door, pointed at me, and asked, “What do we do with him?”

  Jael said, “He will be safe as long as he stays in this apartment.”

  Bobby said, “You heard the lady, Tucker. You stay here tonight. No going out until Jael comes for you.”

  Dana stretched out on the couch, tucking a leather pillow under her head. She said, “I’ll stay with him. Keep him safe until morning.”

  “You got it,” said Bobby. He left with Jael. I locked the door behind them.

  The room was silent. Dana closed her eyes, and her mouth fell open. The Scotch had knocked her out. I rinsed the glasses and put them away. It was good to engage in something simple and domestic. I knew that the simple action of rinsing these glasses could not erupt in some unexpected way and cause damage. Dana getting tortured, Kevin getting killed, and Rosetta getting into the hands of the highest bidder were all tributes to my inability to look around corners and see the havoc I was about to wreak. I sprinkled some food onto Click and Clack’s sponge, contemplating ways I could screw up this simple task. “You guys aren’t going to grow into giant mutants who eat the Back Bay, are you?”

  So much had fallen into place, and I was still processing it. Clouds of fact swirled in my mind, forming themselves into theories, then dissolving back into vapor. Kevin must have needed help on this Rosetta thing. Dana was undercover, but knew that she wouldn’t be able to maintain the ruse. He must have planned to introduce us: why else would he have mentioned “older women” to Dana?

  A theory formed around that fact. Dana let the “older women” comment slip because she thought I was already on board. When she realized that I wasn’t, she went back into undercover mode. It took her breaking into my house to put Kevin’s plan into place. She didn’t know that I had stormed out of his office and never given him a chance to explain. Then he was dead, and nobody knew who to trust.

  I yawned. The Scotch had done its job. I went back into my bedroom. It was neat and tidy. The bed was made, courtesy of a habit instilled by my mother. I reached into the closet and pulled out a spare blanket for Dana.

  I turned and she was standing behind me. I said, “I got you a blanket for the couch.”

  Dana said, “I don’t want to sleep on the couch.” She reached down and untucked her T-shirt. Then she crossed her arms, grabbed the edge of the shirt and pulled it straight up over her head. She was wearing an electric-blue bra. The color complemented her tanned ribs.

  I babbled, “Look, you’ve had a tough day. Lots of adrenaline. You know, they’ve shown that people can confuse an adrenaline high for lust. The heart rate elevates, palms sweat, breathing increases. It’s indistinguishable. Plus the alcohol. You had too much Scotch. I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”

  Dana said nothing. She reached up behind her back with both hands and did whatever magic it is that women do to make their bras unhook. She shivered and her bra fell away, freeing her breasts. The pink nipples were erect.

  I stared and put up my hands. Look-I-don’t-want-any-trouble. “There’s really no need. You can sleep in the bed if you want. I can take the couch. Chivalry would—”

  Still, Dana said nothing. She was beautiful, shirtless, in her jeans, with her blond hair cascading over her shoulders. She stepped forward, grasped my right hand, and placed it on her breast with my thumb over her nipple. We both gasped. She reached up, put her hand behind my neck, and pulled my head toward her. Her lips tasted of smoky Scotch. My left hand found the small of her back and caressed it. She moaned. Her tongue found my lips, as her other hand slipped beneath my belt and seized its prize.

  Chivalry never stood a chance.

  wednesday

  forty-one

  My eyes fluttered open. I saw Dana sleeping next to me and remembered last night’s clothes-ripping melee. We had needed to feel close and safe and loved, to tell death to keep its clammy hands to itself.

  Dana lay on her side facing me, her arms covering her breasts, her fists pressed into her throat. She snored through parted lips. She looked cold. I reached out and pulled the blanket up over her shoulder.

  Dana’s eyes popped open at my touch. She said, “Oh no,” jumped out of bed naked, and bolted into the bathroom. I heard retching.

  “Do all your girls throw up in the morning, baby?” Carol said from over my shoulder.

  I groaned. “Must we do this?” Dana’s retching continued in the other room.

  Carol said, “Poor thing. I know how she feels.”

  “Don’t you have a mansion to haunt?”

  “Don’t be so sensitive.”

  I climbed out of bed.

  Carol said, “My goodness. You still have a great ass.”

  I put on some boxers and said, “How about a little privacy.” Carol disappeared.

  I put on jeans and a “Yankees Suck” T-shirt, and headed into the galley kitchen. The bathroom was quiet for a moment, followed by a little more retching. Dana had definitely drunk too much. I doubted that she wanted me to hold her hair while she threw up, so I left her alone.

  I filled the electric kettle
with water and turned it on. I hadn’t replaced the coffee maker, so we would be having tea. I got out a box of Celestial Seasoning’s Morning Thunder and put it on the counter as I heard Dana come out of the bathroom and stand, blinking, in the hallway. Her hair stuck out and she swayed. She looked as if she had been struck by lightning.

  She was still a knockout, but it seemed impolitic to compliment her when she had just been sick. Instead, I said, “There are towels in the bathroom.” Dana mumbled something about “mouth tastes like Raid,” and stumbled back into the bathroom. I heard the shower running.

  I fished through the fridge and pulled out four eggs, some shredded mozzarella cheese, and a tomato from the Haymarket farmer’s market. As I preheated my cast iron skillet with some olive oil, I pulled out a cutting board and the Cutco kitchen knife that Carol and I had bought from a friend of hers who’d had a brief fling in knife sales. The friend gave up sales after a week; the knife remained, another reminder of Carol.

  I beat up the eggs and poured them into the oil. Then I diced the tomato and threw it in. Finally I sprinkled some mozzarella on the whole thing and added a pinch of oregano. While it cooked, I put toast in the toaster and tweeted.

  Tucker’s patented pizza omelet. Breakfast of Champions!

  The water in the kettle was boiling. I took a tea bag out of the box, put it into a mug, and poured water onto it. Morning Thunder’s distinctive maté smell filled the air. I hadn’t smelled it in months.

  Carol said, “Baby, you kept my tea.” She was sitting in the chair in front of me.

  I said, “It reminds me of you.”

  “You’re sweet. I miss being married to you.”

  “Really? I don’t remember you having much fun.”

  “The end wasn’t so good, but our first year was incredible. Remember how we traveled all over? The Cape. London. San Francisco.”

  Carol was right. We were young, we were in love, and we had a little cash. We backpacked all over, slept in cheap motels, and screwed like bunnies. She was my soulmate. At that time, I could look far into the future and see Carol standing beside me as we grew old together.