"Adam, your heart.” Kristi squeezed his arm. "Besides, this has to go to our lawyers first. We do have lawyers you know, Tina.”
“Look, perhaps Ms. Rodriguez would like to ..."
"I'm not saying anything.” Natalie pushed her hand palms out to ward off the possibility.
"We're done here.” Kristi stood. "We'll be in touch.” She beamed. Her short hair nearly standing straight up. Her makeup-free eyes wide and bright.
The lawyer and the communications director unfolded their hands and pushed themselves up like synchronized swimmers. Robbins clasped the latches on his brief case. He turned and looked out the big tinted window at the glistening waters of Puget Sound.
"Lovely day for a sail," he said sincerely. "Haven't been out on my boat for ages."
"Fear of cement shoes, I would image." Adam rocked his chair back, smiling, raised right overgrown eyebrow wrinkling the pale skin above it.
"This isn't personal,” Robbins said pleadingly, it seemed to Adam. “Very soon, I expect you'll know a lot more that will alarm even you." He focused his attention directly into Adam’s eyes, trying to say with expression what he was not allowed to say with words. "We ..." He made a circling motion with his index finger that encompassed all of them in the room.
"Let's go.” Tina propped open the door.
"Please, do go on.” Kristi drew her mouth into a tight line of irony.
"We are not the only interested party,” Robbins said. “I want you to understand that. When we can say more, we will and you'll be first to hear it ..."
"If we don't fight you,” Beach added, just to be clear.
"That's it.”
Robbins took a business card from his shirt pocket and flicked it at Adam. “Cell’s on the back.”
"Out. David. Out." Tina opened the door wider, suggesting the way. He passed through, and she followed him out.
Watching them go, Adam noticed how loosely Robbins’s pants hung off his hips. He had the look of the harried and harassed.
"Get the door,” Adam told Natalie after the two lawyers had cleared the hall. "Okay, now. Wow. Natalie I want you to go back to that house, don't get caught if you can help it, and see who is going in and out. If you get caught, just start screaming and drive away."
"Have you lost your mind.” Natalie put her hand on the door knob. “I get caught, I'm going to call our attorneys.”
“That’s what I meant.” Adam wrote Robbins’ cell number on his note pad. He had a bad idea, one worth pursuing. "Kristi?"
“Okay.” She reached across the table, stabbed the lawyer’s card with her finger and dragged it to her. “Don’t break the rules here.” She skimmed the court order again. “It says to stay away from Mannerheim and his property, so make sure that house doesn't belong to him. If it doesn't, stake it out. If it does, you two wait until I hear from our lawyers."
"It doesn’t. We've got the list of his properties this morning.” Adam nodded at at Natalie, whose now-flush face gave away some of her rising intimidation at what she was getting into, “and it's not on it."
"Okay then." Kristi wrote down the number to the paper's attorney on a yellow legal pad, tore it out and handed it to Natalie. "In case you do get picked up. Dial the number and leave the phone on throughout the entire encounter."
"Am I going to win a Pulitzer for this?” Natalie tried to joke, but her tone sought affirmation that her reporting had gotten them here.
"Not yet,” Beach said, “but keep asking those piercing questions and you'll definitely win a pink slip. Now get out of here and close the door, please.”
Natalie closed the door behind her.
"I need a cigarette.” Adam shook his head in disbelief. “Wow.”
“Me too."
They chain-smoked two cigarettes apiece, in silence, tipping their ashes into water glasses. Beach stood up first.
"We really are going to be famous.” She dropped the butt into the water glass and brushed ashes off the front of her jacket and walked out.
Adam smoked another cigarette while writing a list of questions and the people who might be able to answer them. He circled Mannerheim’s name and made up his mind to get an off-the-record conversation with him, see if he wanted to talk since there was clearly something bigger than a couple of photos driving interest in the Daily-Record’s reporting.
VI
Parked on a street perpendicular to the party house, fifty yards away, Natalie watched the property and the driveway, currently empty. The streetlight hitting the roof of the leased car and threw the inside into shadow. She’d been parked there for two hours, without coffee or water because needing a toilet would require her to drive away. She also didn’t distract herself with her phone, since even with low backlighting it would have given her away by illuminating her face. Instead, she occupied herself with writing the details of her first stakeout in a reporter’s notebook, in which she wrote about how she parked her car, didn’t drink water so she wouldn’t have to pee and not being able to posting to Stream media because of the backlighting. She wrote down the number of cars around her, diagramed her position relative to the property, described the 1970’s ranch style house, periwinkle trim and asparagus walls, one of the few small working-class houses left in the neighborhood. She untied her hair and then tied it back into an even tighter ponytail, without swinging her head around or flaring her hair in the light. She made a note of that. After the first twenty minutes, she’d exhausted her note-taking and used up a quarter of the long pages of the notebook. If she couldn’t post to Stream media now, she could later recount her experience on her personal Stream media hub page … if Adam let her. He just didn’t realize how big of a following she could generate with this material. After complaining to herself until she hated herself for complaining, she’d been there only an hour longer. After that, her brain fazed out while her eyes remained opened and pointed at the house.
Some point later, two vans pulled up. It took her a second to realize what had changed among outlines in the two-dimensions her nearly asleep brain had made of the world, then: Wham! Shit, two long white vans, like white tubes on black wheels … 10:32 p.m., she wrote. Church vans or tourists. Faces pressed against the windows, fogging the glass. She scratched out fogging the glass. She put the notebook down and took a deep breath. The vans stopped at the curb on the cross-street. She counted ten women and six men get out of the vans, picked up the notebook and wrote: Dressed like they’re going to a EDM rave. The women wore short, tight dresses. Some jangled with sequins. Others wore the Seattle Simple Black. The men wore jeans and T-shirts. The group looked like an urban dance troupe. The pages on her notebook were going too fast. Calm down. Her brain acknowledged that part of the problem was she really needed to use a toilet and that was befuddling her cool.
An agonizing ten minutes later, the tall woman from the night before stepped out of the passenger seat of the forward van. Her entourage, the two athletic women, filed out of the driver’s side door. Those first from the vans had gone inside, and the last three walked to the door but only the tall woman went in. The other two stayed outside, like twin door sentinels. After looking around, they started walking toward Natalie’s car. At first she thought maybe it only looked like they were heading right at her. They couldn’t see her, could they? Had someone been watching her? She blushed thinking of being watched through all her amateur stakeout machinations. She put her finger on the electric engine’s engage button, an impulse to get the hell out of there, just a sudden panic, thinking of all that happened since the last time she’d spied on them. But the two looked happy, jovial, shoulders relaxed, chins up, not threatening or mad looking. Just a couple of old friends coming over to say Hi. Jeans, not too tight, and green runner shirts with a symbol on them she didn’t recognize. They did look alike, she thought as they approached the car. Two sides of the same coin. One of them came to her window and the other turned and hopped up onto the front of the car, feet on the bumper. Natalie powered her window down
and thought to say something about the hood of the car, but the motion was so friendly she didn’t want to be a jerk. The woman at her widow smiled, bright white teeth. Were these girls sorority gems, soccer queens? She knew the type and wanted to hang out with them the moment she saw them.
“We’re not supposed to talk with you.” Teasing, a little chirpy. Confident. She didn’t wear makeup, not that her blue eyes and complexion needed it. Her eyes in fact were very blue, light and glowing. Natalie did not see any telltale signs of accent contacts, but it was hard to tell …
“Well,” Natalie told herself to act like it’s just a party, to banter, “you’ve just broken the rules. Might as well tell me everything.”
“Ha! I knew we’d like you.”
“What’s going on in there?” Natalie pointed with her notebook at the house, keeping everything aboveboard.
“What does it look like to you?” The talkative one raised an eyebrow.
“Twenty questions?” Natalie raised both eyebrows in response. Her brain labeled the two as The Soccer Twins.
“Twenty or thirty.” Big smile.
“Party?”
“Kind of is. That why you’re here?”
Natalie paused. The answer in her mouth was Hey, I’m asking the questions here. But that was both false and defensive. Why was she there? To spy, sure. To find out more, anything more, about Mannerheim, yes. Why was he there that night and why did her photos cause such a shit storm? Of course. But actually, she recognized while studying whatever that sensation was coming from the Soccer Twin’s eyes, she was there to find out more about them. So, honesty: “I’m here to learn what I can about you and that woman who just went into the house and Mannerheim and why a photo I took of you four together has gotten me into so much trouble.”
“You didn’t get into trouble, did you?” She spoke in a playful manner, like a friend teasingly anxious to tell you something.
“Well, not really, but I bet I’m going to.”
At that, the talkative one lost her smile and backed away from the door. Serious now that it was clear they were going to engage. “I can’t tell you. But no one said I can’t show you, my lovely.”
The comment jarred Natalie. It gave their budding relationship a new and possibly negative twist. Especially since she doubted she understood who was trapping whom. But then the ironic smile returned and, also, setting traps didn’t matter at this point. At this point, just getting inside was all that mattered. Worry later. “What about her?” Natalie nodded toward the house door. “Can I interview her?”
“She ...” The talkative one, with a hair-flip, looked back at the house and at the other Soccer Twin sitting on the car hood. “She doesn’t talk to humans.”
“Animals?”
“That’s just what some say. Wanna come in or not?”
Anxious or just a little miffed? Natalie couldn’t tell. Mercurial in any event. “Well, I do have to pee something fierce.”
“Okay then!”
Natalie could not get a bead on her.
“Bathrooms we got.”
The Twin on the hood dismounted gracefully, landing with an athletic spring. The talkative Twin joined her and walked toward the house. They left Natalie to get out of the car and follow … or not, their pace told her. She did.
Just inside the front door, the party looked much like it had the night before. Just no Mannerheim or tall woman. A regular house party. A handful of kids standing around the kitchen sink, sitting on the counters. No one appeared to be drinking, and Natalie thought of those parties her Catholic school friends had in junior high. She followed the Soccer Twins through the kitchen to the back hall and was directed to a bathroom. When she came out a couple of minutes later, no one was on the main floor. Not even her escorts. She hadn’t heard any sounds of an exodus. She felt and then her ears tuned in music, trance dance music, bumping up through the floor. She walked back to the kitchen and found the door to the basement. Instead of going down there, she stepped into the dining room. The room looked a lot smaller than the last time she was in it. Facing the fireplace, for no obvious reason, like a stream screen, was a white leather couch. The seats also not much used. They hadn’t bothered with pillows. She wrote these details down and then assessed: I don’t think anyone spends much time in this house except for these get-togethers. She went back into the kitchen to confirm her suspicions by going through the drawers and cupboards. Some garage-sale silverware, a couple of green dishtowels. Box of sweet cereal dressed up like fruit ... Nothing in the fridge. So, whoever rented this place from Mr. Jeff Clive, the registered owner (just some guy who inherited the place 20 years ago), wasn’t spending much time in it. She thought about checking out the bedrooms, but the door to the basement opened behind her and music flooded up into the room.
“Find any details for your story?”
She turned around and faced the talkative Twin.
“Does anyone actually live here?” She kept her notebook out to counter the appearance of subterfuge, pen poised to write the response.
“Can’t say a word about anything.” Hip against the counter, arms crossing.
“Do you go to college? Surely you can tell me about yourself.”
“Nope. I’ve been warned that you journalists are too darn tricky to talk to.”
“Can I go downstairs?”
She didn’t answer but turned and motioned the way ahead of her.
In the unfinished basement at the bottom of the open steps, she stopped to take in the crowd. The Twin walked ahead to a gap in the mass of party-goers. The others stood in two groups on either side of a straight center opening about four-feet wide. They stood still, some smiling and looking around with just their eyes. They stood in rows facing each other. The tall woman from the night before sat on a dining chair at the end of the center aisle facing Natalie as she stepped down to the bare concrete floor. They made eye contact, the same deep-look she got from her guide out in the street. She pushed the notebook into her back pocket. Not like she would forget the details of the room and its occupants anytime soon.
Unsure of what to do next, Natalie studied the leader from the bottom of the steps. The tall woman wore a short tan leather vest pulled tight with two copper buckles and braided copper straps. The leather sown through with thin copper wires. A network of copper fibers. There was a pattern in the network, but not like an animal or structure. The pattern resembled the recording of a vibration, a voice or seismic recording. The vest’s open top stopped just above the woman’s cleavage. Natalie guessed she had to be six-feet tall at least, though her hair bunched on top of her head could have made her seem taller than she was. She’s fit, like the Soccer Twins. Tights tucked into high-lace, black combat boots.
The music volume increased, signaling a change in the itinerary. Natalie took her eyes off the central woman to find her escort. She stood in a row at the front of the group to Natalie’s right. The Twin made a small, quick motion with her hand, beckoning her to come. A gap opened between her and the other Soccer Twin. She walked slowly toward them, showing cool, she hoped, but the first one raised her eyebrows and motioned her to hurry. Natalie crossed the distance with larger steps and popped into the gap. The leader opened her eyes but not at anyone. She looked down the center of the gathering at a two-and-a-half-foot tall, upside down jar, like a glass bell used to cover a cake but taller. It and its stand had been set up at the bottom of the steps. In the center of the bell jar, a copper rod ran from the nippled glass top down into what looked like black sand.
Closer now to the obvious leader, Natalie looked her over again. Under the vest she wore a short-sleeve white shirt. Just below her short vest, over her mid-riff, showed a black corset. It looked homemade, laced together at the sides with a shiny metal. More copper maybe. She couldn’t tell. Below that, the woman wore a pleated, short black skirt. Her face held itself still in serious, almost grim, concentration. She did not wear makeup but her eyes, a shinny dark brown, stood out sharp and distinct
. Deep pools, but not empty. Natalie pulled her eyes out of those pools to look down at the choker made of metal and studded with four blue gems or glass beads stacked up the front. The little blue gems glowed bright, like LED lights. The color matched the color of The Twins' eyes. Looking back to the leader, the repetitive music seeming to match her heart beat, she noted big cuffs on the woman's upper arms made of thin, woven copper wires. Each hand palm-down on corresponding thigh, the woman closed her eyes and started to vibrate, moving her shoulders in an impossibly fast rhythm.
Oh man, Natalie thought, you have got to be kidding me. I’ve stumbled upon an underground sex-ritual cult or satan-worshiping indoctrination thing from a gothic vampire stream. Wouldn’t it be weird if they killed me? Her stomach fluttered. What would I do if they dragged someone up the center right now, kicking and screaming? A delightful chill zipped up the back of her neck. The Soccer Twin behind her said in her ear, “Sometimes it happens right away. Sometimes it takes all night. Depends on the people. But she never fails.”
Natalie turned toward The Twin behind her. Their faces very close. “Never fails at what?” Her eyes looked into Natalie’s, pulsing to the music. Pulsing into her. She didn’t respond. Natalie blushed and turned her head. What if it’s me they grab or hypnotize or something! Her heart thumped out of rhythm against the music, a jarring sensation. She told herself, Nothing has happened. Calm down. They know others know you are here and why. Maybe they’re just keeping you from rushing into the middle of it all or doing something too stupid to ignore. She looked at the men and women lined up on the other side of the open center. They all had on the same kind of woven-copper collar with the blue light in the middle. The Twins didn’t, however. She turned again and the Twin behind her edged close again. She whispered just above the music, “Should I have one of those collars on?”
“You haven’t signed on yet,” the woman whispered back. “Oops!” She nudged Natalie with her shoulder. “Damn it! You got me to answer a question.”
Mind Hive Page 3