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by McClelland, Mark

  "No, but I'm not really hungry." Raymond took his jacket off, and Anya took it from him and hung it on a hook. He wandered toward the sofa, but remained standing. Knowing that Bob would probably call him upon hearing about the break-in, he wanted to go straight to bed to get what sleep he could.

  "Are you sure you're not hungry?" She crossed to where he was standing. It seemed she wanted to be near him, to touch him. "I made a big pot of minestrone the other day. You could have a bowl of soup, and I could slice you some sourdough. Doesn't that sound nice?"

  Raymond's wrist relay vibrated, indicating that the NBC headed to his motor home had been successfully delivered.

  "Um, sure. That does sound nice. I guess I should eat something."

  Anya headed off to the kitchen. Raymond stood about, feeling an odd mix of overload and emptiness. How very strange to be in the home of this innocent, dear woman while in the midst of such a critical step in his plans. It gave him a perfect alibi, but it felt wrong. He was vaguely aware that reserving information from her in this manner was subtly eroding his respect for her. It made it seem as though she were far away, a person who just happened to be in the same Ann Arbor home, unwittingly a tool in his plan. He wanted to console her, but anything short of telling her the truth would just make him feel more empty. Such detachment while being with this woman about whom he had such intimate fantasies made him feel guilty, listless, dangerous. He shouldn't be with her. He walked to the kitchen doorway, intending to excuse himself. If he remained with her, he would break down. Something would slip.

  "I—"

  "Do you want your bread lightly toasted?"

  As she asked this question, she too was headed for the doorway. He started to shake his head.

  "I should—"

  He cut himself off. She looked at him with searching concern, and he was afraid of making her unhappy. She reached her hands out for his, but he made no movement in response. He had to go—he couldn't let her stop him from going.

  She dropped her hands to her side. "Are you okay, Raymond? What's wrong?"

  He looked away from her, to the side, then shifted his gaze to the floor. A short breath of exasperation escaped him.

  "Honey, what's the matter?" She moved in to hold him, and he backed away.

  "Listen, I'm sorry. I really should go."

  "No! I mean, no, please don't go." She took his hand from his side and started to lead him to the sofa. He resisted, but she didn't let go. She leaned her weight away from him, pulling him toward the sofa. She looked at him and stuck out her tongue, still pulling him. He laughed, reluctantly allowing himself to be pulled along.

  "Anya," he pleaded, "you can't do this. If I say I should go, you have to let me go."

  "Not like this. You're going to sit down and tell me what's on your mind. Then, if you still think you need to go, you can go. But you can't just show up, brighten my night by asking to stay, and then up and leave without explanation. Now sit down and tell me what's going on."

  Raymond plopped down on the sofa and stared blankly across the room. He exhaled pointedly. Resentment stirred within him.

  "Okay," said Anya. "You can start by giving me a clue. One or two words. Whatever comes to mind."

  Raymond resisted. He took a deep breath. He certainly couldn't tell her the first thing that came to mind.

  "Okay, if that doesn't work," persisted Anya, "how about this? I'll ask you questions, and you can just tell me yes or no. Is it something I did?"

  Raymond made a motion to get up, but Anya pounced on his thigh, pushing him back down into the sofa.

  "Anya!"

  "It's something I did, isn't it?"

  "No," whined Raymond, shaking his head. He still didn't look at her. How was it that he had imagined this being a simple, cozy escape? What sort of alibi would she offer if she could see right through him?

  She folded her feet beneath her and leaned her head against his upper arm, reaching a hand tenderly across his chest.

  "Raymond," she said softly, "it feels good to have you here. Please stay. You don't have to talk." She rubbed his chest. "I don't want to lose you."

  He took another deep breath. His mind was a spinning, writhing mess.

  "I don't want..." His voice cracked slightly, and his eyes suddenly watered. "...to lose you either."

  But I have to lose you.

  He felt her hand press his chest harder. She cooed and leaned into his arm. Through force of will, he managed to prevent himself from crying, driving all thoughts from his mind and opening his eyes wide, looking away from her.

  "Oh shit! The soup!" Anya jumped off the couch and raced toward the kitchen. Half way there, she stopped and turned around. "Stay right there! I'll be right back!"

  Raymond could hear her as she turned off her old-fashioned stove.

  "You probably don't feel like eating?" she called.

  "Not really. I'm sorry."

  "No, no, it's no problem."

  Raymond glanced at his wrist relay. It was 11:50, and he had not yet received confirmation that the other NBC had been successfully entered into Property Disposition's outgoing delivery chamber. It was supposed to make the midnight pickup. He stood up from the couch, restless, just as Anya came back into the room.

  "You're leaving, aren't you."

  "No, I'm just really tired. Is it okay if I crawl into your bed?"

  "Okay..." She sounded rather tentative.

  "I'm sorry, Anya, I just don't feel like talking."

  "That's alright. Give me a kiss, and then you can go to bed."

  He gave her an obligatory peck, to which she responded with another searching gaze.

  "Whatever is on your mind," she said, "it must be serious. I really wish you could share it with me."

  "Well, I can't." That came off much more sharply than he had intended. She looked at him with disbelief. Somehow it felt good to hurt her, as if he had received validation of his original intention to leave. But it was an odd note to end on as he made his way into her bedroom. "I'm sorry, Anya," he said, affecting sincerity. "I just want to be near you tonight. I'm really not even sure what's wrong."

  She hugged him.

  "I want things to work between us, Raymond," she said, holding him. He was taken aback by the weight of her words. "You can't keep closing me out. I know you have a hard time being open with me, but you need to know that I'm here for you."

  He stiffly hugged her back, his perfunctory manner an inadvertent defense mechanism—somewhere deep within, he equated emotional detachment with power.

  "Okay," he said, aware that the closure was purely superficial.

  He headed into her bedroom. Resentment stirred within him. He considered getting into bed with all his clothes on, as a signal to her of just how much he could close her out if he wanted to.

  That'll just drag it out.

  He violently undressed, threw back the covers, and crawled in. Moments after pulling the sheet up over his shoulder, he felt his wrist relay vibrate. He pulled his arm up out of the covers and saw what he was hoping to see: a green smiley face winked at him—the second NBC would be on its way to the bunker tonight. It was 11:57 PM. He confirmed receipt of the message and tucked himself in again. Knowing that one more hurdle had been cleared was reassuring. It took the edge off of his irritation.

  His fuming mood relented, and he started to wonder why he was angry. He couldn't figure it out. He felt like a child, his emotions out of control. Her words and touches replayed in his head as acts of oppression.

  Anya entered the room, undressed, and joined him in bed. He didn't stir. She said his name softly, but he pretended to be asleep. She snuggled up behind him and gently kissed his shoulder. Within a few minutes he felt her breath grow heavy and fall into the rhythm of sleep.

  o-------------------------------o

  Raymond didn't know how long he had been asleep when his wrist relay went off, but it didn't take much for it to awaken him—the first vibration brought him to full alertness. He
looked and saw that it was 4:08am. He had received an alert from Bob, as expected.

  He slipped carefully out of bed. Anya's sleeping body showed no sign of disturbance. He walked into her bathroom and closed the door, took a moment to wake up and get in character, then initiated a voice connection with Bob.

  "Raymond, I need you to come to the lab. There's been a break-in."

  "A break-in? You mean another network breach?"

  "No, someone broke into the lab, and they destroyed two NBCs. It looks like it was the ALA. I need to know everything you found out about the security breach. I need you to get here as soon as you can."

  As Raymond walked back into Anya's bedroom, he heard her groggy voice ask him who he was talking to. Not wanting to deal with her, he told her only that it was Bob, and that he wanted to know more about the security breach. He kissed her forehead.

  "You have to go? Can't you just talk to him about it?"

  "No, I need to go to the lab. Go back to sleep. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

  Chapter 9

  As Raymond coasted toward the lab, eager to escape the damp night chill, he noticed a tall silhouette in the lab's entryway, behind the exterior glass doors. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was a police woman.

  "That didn't take long," he said to himself.

  He stood up on his pedals and smoothly dismounted as the bike rolled to a stop. The woman watched but made no motion to open the door for him. He made eye contact with the two red lights of the security sensor above the door and spoke his name, "Raymond Quan". The doors slid open, and he rolled his bike into the entryway, hoping he wouldn't have to exchange words with this statuesque representative of civic authority.

  The outer doors closed and the inner doors opened, but the woman stepped in Raymond's path and held up her wrist, on which she wore a standard-issue black police wrist relay. Raymond dutifully looked at it, aware that it was scanning his face and comparing it with the photo on record under his federal registration.

  "ID please," she said flatly. Her voice was low and devoid of emotion.

  Raymond brought his own wrist relay up, placed his right thumb carefully on its face, issued a few commands, and heard the police relay chirp to acknowledge receipt of data. His nerves fluttered a bit as she monitored her relay, apparently waiting for confirmation. He glanced at the badge on her shirt, which identified her as an officer of the Michigan State Police Department.

  "Okay, you can go in. Straight to the main conference room. All offices have been closed. You'll see—just stay clear of the taped-off areas."

  He proceeded into the empty lobby, and the inner doors of the entryway finally closed behind him.

  Yellow tape was everywhere. The only passage not taped off was the hall toward the center of the building. Even the bike storage room was off limits, so he wheeled his bike down the long hallway. As he walked past the scanning room, the door opened and out glided a hovering metallic orb, at eye level, bristling with gadgets—a police sniffer bot. It picked up speed and zipped down the hall in front of him. The scanning-room door remained open for a time, and through it, in the center of the otherwise dark space, he saw another orb, fanning an array of lights over the scanner. The door closed.

  Raymond let out a low whistle, taken aback by the speed and thoroughness of the police response.

  o-------------------------------o

  Bob stood in the conference room with a tankard of coffee, wearing running pants and a faded University of Michigan rain jacket. He faced the main screen, which was blank. Seated nearby was another police woman, in her mid-thirties, pale, with a neatly cut bob. She slowly shook her head as she read a document on the tablet in front of her, occasionally tapping the screen. Neither noticed him.

  "This would be a lot easier," she said, seemingly to herself, "if the university would allow campus-wide surveillance." Her words were evenly spaced and delivered with a mildly aggrieved tone. Raymond felt an innate positive response to this woman.

  "Thank god," responded Bob with an edge of contempt, "for the rare bastion of privacy."

  Raymond walked his bike into the room and leaned it against a wall. It made a soft thunking sound as he locked the tires, drawing attention to his arrival.

  "Oh, Raymond," said Bob. "Thanks for coming in. Ms. Brody, this is Raymond Quan—"

  The main screen lit up, interrupting Bob's introduction. Ms. Brody smiled courteously at Raymond, then turned to face the screen. A clean-cut young man in a traditional white dress shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled to the elbow, looked out at them from the screen.

  "Sorry I had to duck out," he said. "Is this Raymond?"

  "Yes," responded Bob. "Just arrived. Raymond, as I was saying, this is Ms. Brody. She's with the state police. And this is... I'm sorry..."

  "Michaels," answered the man on-screen. "Agent Michaels. Okay, where were we, Detective Brody?"

  Raymond swallowed hard.

  Agent? FBI? It's 4:30 AM, an hour after my little staged break-in, and the FBI is already involved?

  "Right, well," said Ms. Brody. "I've gone through every step of the initial procedure you sent. You should have all of the security video by now?"

  "Yes, we have the security video, the network logs, and the lab's personnel records, and I'm working to assign an analysis team."

  Raymond stood blinking. It baffled him that the FBI showed such keen interest. There was evidently some political significance far greater than he realized. Perhaps some Naturalist in government had been dying for a reason to shut down the project. Or maybe the FBI was merely a vehicle for stealing the team's research, to trade, or use for their own purposes. Whatever the explanation, Raymond had attracted an infestation of the very federal agents he had spent so much of his life carefully dodging.

  Agent Michaels was looking away from the camera on his end—off to the side, most likely at a display.

  "So," said Bob to Ms. Brody, "I'm guessing that the FBI will be taking the investigation from here?"

  "No," answered Brody, speaking directly to Bob. "In a case like this, involving the property of a state-funded institution—"

  "Actually," interrupted Michaels, "the answer in this case would be yes." He looked up from his display. "An FBI team will be arriving on-site at 8:00 AM, and you will be relieved, Detective Brody."

  From where Raymond stood, he couldn't see Brody's face. But he saw her head tilt slightly downward, and he was quite certain that Michaels had just received a look.

  "I'm sorry, Detective," said Michaels in a politely conciliatory tone. "I do appreciate the work you've put in this morning. The Bureau relies on the work of men and women like yourself, able to respond quickly and carry out the crucial first steps of investigation. But I'm afraid—"

  "Agent Michaels," interrupted Brody, "I do appreciate the sense of self-importance that comes with a Bureau position such as your own." Raymond couldn't help but smile at her cuttingly deadpan sarcasm. "But you will find," she continued, "that I am a woman not easily intimidated." Michaels opened his mouth to speak; Brody merely spoke louder. "You will also find that I know policy. Very, very well." She turned to Bob and resumed her initial answer. "So, in answer to your question, the FBI and I will be conducting independent investigations. I will of course share all of my findings with the FBI, and I can only hope that Agent Michaels will do the same for me."

  "Ms. Brody—" started the FBI man on screen.

  "That's Detective," she corrected. "Detective Brody."

  "Detective Brody, your—"

  "Thank you," she interrupted again.

  "Detective Brody, your spirit is certainly... admirable. And, according to policy, your answer is accurate. But you may find that your notion of policy is a bit naive."

  Raymond looked to Bob, expecting him to weigh in, but Bob stood silently by.

  "Now, Bob," said Michaels. "It will be necessary to interview all members of your staff."

  "Of course. As I said before, you have my full cooperation, an
d I'm sure that goes for everyone on my team, as well."

  Michaels turned in Raymond's direction.

  "Raymond, you were closest to the network security breach last night. I would like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright?"

  Raymond hesitated for just a split second. "Sure, of course."

  "It's okay, Raymond," said Bob. "I've told them about all the work you put in last night. They just want to ask you some questions."

  "Okay," said Raymond.

  "And Bob," said Michaels. "I will have to ask you to leave."

  "Oh, sure, sure." Bob made a point to walk past Raymond on his way out. He put a hand on Raymond's shoulder and spoke to him in a low tone. "Raymond, I want you to know how grateful I am. I apologize for putting you in this position. As soon as this is over, I'll do everything I can to keep the pressure off."

  Bob headed out, closing the door behind him.

  "Okay," said Michaels. "I—" He looked to his display. "I'm sorry, I'll be back in a second." The screen went blank.

  Brody turned sideways in her chair, to face Raymond. She gestured to the chairs next to her. "Please, have a seat."

  Raymond sat down. He shifted his seat a bit, not sure which way he should face.

  "How old are you?" she asked.

  "Twenty-six."

  "Twenty-six," she repeated. She looked him over with a scowl of focused scrutiny. He felt like he was being read. Her gaze lingered at the right side of his face. "Is that a birthmark?"

  "Yes."

  "I like birthmarks. Very distinctive. Your parents never tried to have it repaired?"

  "No," replied Raymond, nervously shifting away from her. "No, my parents couldn't afford cosmetic surgery. And when I was in state homes, uh... it's not in their budget."

  "I see."

  The screen lit up again. Agent Michaels was back. "Okay. Now Raymond, we have the lab's network logs here, under analysis, but I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened when and how you reacted. Just to provide some context."