by Linden Storm
“What’s up?” Belle says impatiently.
William looks down at the tabletop. Someone has carved a jagged heart and some initials into the wood; someone else has scratched over the sentiment.
“I’ve been sent,” William says.
Belle catches a patch of bright yellow in her peripheral vision and looks up at the window-wall in time to see Nick lumbering down the sidewalk. He fills the doorway, searches the crowd, then heads their way, squeezing through a maze of tables and chairs.
Belle groans. She’s going to have to be mean to two ex-teammates at once.
“Hola!” Nick says.
“I hate it when people greet me in a language they don’t speak,” Belle says.
“Uh, actually, he speaks Spanish,” William says.
“I do speak Spanish,” Nick says. “And French, Russian, Japanese, Mandarin…”
“Okay, you’re a brilliant academic,” Belle says, holding her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “You win. You have a life. What do you want?”
William stands up, moves toward Nick, and enfolds him in a rocking, back-stroking hug. Nick laughs. They look into each other’s eyes.
Belle puts her head in her hands and waits for them to stop.
When they finally sit down, she says, “What are you guys doing here? I think I made it clear—I quit.”
“We were just wondering…” Nick says. “If you’ve thought any more about what might have happened to Marina?” Nick says. “I hate to channel Grandpa, but I don’t believe she would disappear like that if she had a choice.”
Belle shrugs. “We don’t know what she’s thinking. Maybe she’s frustrated with us. Maybe the pressure has gotten to her.”
“Marina?” Nick says. “I’ve never seen her bow to pressure before. She’s tough.”
Belle says nothing, just shrugs and looks away. Part of her is still wondering if their post-match confrontation in the closet could have been enough to drive Marina away. The other part is worried that something bad has indeed happened to her.
William folds his arms. “I agree with Nick and Harold. She wouldn’t run off two weeks before the final. And you don’t believe that either. You’re just upset.”
“Don’t tell me what I believe,” Belle says. She feels the old familiar rage heating her chest and a lump forming in her throat.
William leans forward. In this light, his eyes have shifted from gray to the improbable green of glacier-fed lakes. Belle shifts her gaze to his hairline, but that’s distracting too. He has beautiful honey-colored hair that falls in graceful waves around his angular face.
“Let’s review the facts of the situation,” William says. “With the way Rupert wrote the contracts, we don’t have much incentive to play unless we can win. And to win, we need Marina and you. Together.”
“Regardless of how badly we lose—and we’ll be lucky if we don’t get ground to pixels within minutes—if we don’t play, Rupert will sue us and get us banned for life from the game,” Nick says.
“I don’t care,” Belle says, sweeping her arm out. “I’m not going to allow myself and my team to be humiliated.”
“The thing I can’t get out of my head is that Marina loves to play. I can’t see her giving it up. Giving us up,” Nick says.
“Not voluntarily,” William says.
“That’s it,” Nick says, nodding at William.
Belle says nothing, but she can’t deny that William and Nick are making sense.
Nick raises his large, pudgy hand. “I’ve called in a couple of PhD candidates I know from the Computer Science Department—” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “—one time they hacked into Homeland, and...”
Belle rolls her hand in a circle to encourage Nick to get to the point.
Nick nods. “Never mind. Anyway. Even they can’t find any trace of Marina. I can only assume she is unconscious, being held prisoner in an underground Faraday cage—”
“—or doesn’t want to be found,” Belle says. “It’s still a possibility.”
William and Nick look at each other and slowly shake their heads in unison.
“We need to make sure she’s all right. We have time,” William says.
“But how? None of us has any money.”
A couple of young techies at the next table are looking at William and whispering. William looks embarrassed.
Nick looks guilty.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Belle says, throwing up her hands. “Why are they looking at you?”
A business-suited bro stops by the table and gives William a thumbs-up.
“I’m sure it’s because we won the semifinal. A lot of people watched that match,” William says.
“That’s not it,” Belle says. “Or they would have been in here before, annoying me with stupid noob questions and trying to take selfies with me. ”
“Um, maybe they want to order some cannabis? I’ve got a new oil that’s…”
“That’s not it,” Belle says.
Nick sighs. “And then there’s the interview.”
“It could be the interview, I guess,” William says, grimacing at Nick.
Belle slips her phone out of her pocket and starts searching. She looks up, squinting at William. “At five this morning you did an interview with YourStream Today.”
William leans back in his chair and sighs.
On Belle’s screen, William is smiling his charming smile, talking to a smarmy interviewer. About her. There’s footage of the semifinal game, including a closeup of Belle’s scowling face in the moments after the game ends, when that infuriating broadcaster, J.T., asks her a question.
Then the camera is close on William’s handsome, smiling face. His glacier-fed eyes. “She’s difficult, yeah, but she’s brilliant. And she’s a great leader. Belle and Marina together are unstoppable.”
Belle feels embarrassed and exposed. YourStream Today is watched by millions of people who aren’t in their world, not into their sport at all. The general public. “You told YourStream Today that I’m difficult? Why did you even talk to them?”
William looked down at the table. “I thought if anyone had seen Marina, we might find out where she is.”
“You told a reporter for YourStream Today that Marina is missing?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my god,” Belle says.
Nick looks at William. William raises one of his perfect eyebrows and grins.
“So, if we get a lead, are you coming with us to look for her?” Nick says.
Embarrassment overcomes whatever other emotions are warring for Belle’s soul, and she stands up. The only thing to do when you’re overwhelmed is retreat until you’re not overwhelmed anymore, and you can come out fighting. “Look. I’m out. But you two fools should go if you want to,” Belle says.
“But we need you to come with us. You’re the relative,” Nick says.
Belle groans. “There’s no proof that I’m related to Marina, though. Not yet.”
“Come on, Belle, even if you’re not related, you look like the relative,” Nick says. “You look exactly alike. It’s a fact.”
Belle puffs air out through her lips and thinks of what makes her different from Marina. Her hair is brown, not black. Her eyes are light brown, not that deep, mahogany brown. Her face is not as round. Her skin is not as dark. “I don’t think I look that much like her. And we have no money. And if we have no money we cannot fly to Phoenix and look for her. And if we don’t fly to Phoenix and look for her, we won’t find her. We’ve tried everything else. As you know, Rupert refuses to help.”
Nick smiles and slowly shakes his head. “But we don’t need Rupert. Grandpa and the fan club came up with twenty-three hundred bucks, plus some airline credits. That’s enough to get us to Phoenix, right?”
“We need to go see the husband,” William says. “Ask him when he saw her last and see if he acts guilty.”
“We’ve got to fly down there,” Nick says.
“No,” Belle says.
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“We can’t go without you. You’re her sister. We have no status,” Nick says.
“No,” Belle says.
“Look,” William says. “What if the husband did do something to her? I know it’s unlikely, but what if she needs help?”
Belle weaves her arms into a shield on her chest and studies the ceiling and thinks. “He’s not going to tell us anything if he’s guilty,” she says.
William smiles. Belle frowns.
“Does that mean you’ll go?” he says.
“I didn’t say that,” Belle says.
William’s eyes cut to Nick, who is busy on his phone. “Nick, what time’s our flight?” William says.
“Two hours from now,” Nick says. “I bought the tickets just now, while you two were arguing,” Nick says, grinning. “I already had it queued up.”
“We weren’t arguing,” Belle says, sighing. “I’ve got no clothes.”
“You should get one of these smart-shirts,” Nick says proudly, sweeping his arm down the front of his orange smock. “Self-cleaning and odor-resistant.”
“It’s nice, man,” William says.
“I know, right?” Nick says.
“You guys are so strange,” Belle says.
“We can use the delivery van. It’s just finished a delivery in the Regrade, and it’s pulling up outside right now,” William says.
Belle looks up and sees William’s truck, a white van with a cannabis leaf the size of a small tree painted on the side, parking in the loading zone.
She makes a decision. It comes straight from her gut.
She stands up and turns toward the counter and catches Patrick’s eye.
“Patrick, I have an emergency,” she says. “I have to go.”
The line has a dozen people in it, but it’s moving steadily.
Patrick raises one heavily pierced eyebrow. “I can handle this.”
“And cover my shifts for a couple of days?”
“Huh?” Patrick says.
Belle pops behind the counter, snags her backpack, and heads for the door, yelling over her shoulder to William and Nick: “Are we going or not?”
Chapter Three
In the Hunt
Less than seven hours later, standing in the oven that is Phoenix in July, Belle pounds on an apartment door. It’s the apartment where Marina and Jimmy Wishkowski supposedly live.
“I feel like a rotisserie pig,” Nick whispers.
He’s got a point. It is hotter than hell in this brown, dry wasteland. Nick’s face is red and sweat pours down his face.
“The X-shirt doesn’t work for shit,” Belle says, needling him.
“I’m from Seattle, Planet Earth,” he wails. “Where are we? Vulcan?”
“It’s hot, all right,” William says, patting Nick’s shoulder. He pulls his hand back quickly, wipes Nick’s sweat on his jeans.
There’s no answer to Belle’s door-pounding and shouting.
Nick tugs at William’s damp shirt and the two of them start to walk away, but Belle motions for them to stay. She reaches in her pocket and brings out a velvet case. It contains a lock-picking set.
She goes to work on the door, which is fortunately fitted with an old-fashioned lock and not a retina or chip-enabled latch.
William walks down and peeks around the corner.
“What are you doing?” Nick whispers to Belle.
“I’ve leveled up my lock-picking skills, IRL,” Belle says. “Duh.”
Belle feels the lock give, gets the door open, and goes in, followed closely by William. There appear to be no alarm or cameras. William motions for Nick to follow them. Nick shakes his head emphatically.
“It’s cool in here,” William says.
Nick slips inside, and Belle closes the door behind him.
It smells like rotten garbage, but it is indeed a reasonable temperature. Belle takes a deep breath of cool air through her mouth.
“One thing I really enjoy about the game is its lack of the olfactory senses,” Nick says, holding his hand over his nose and mouth.
They stand inside the mass-produced, southwest-style one-bedroom. The walls are a faded putty color and the carpet’s a fatty layer of cream. The living room is archaeological layers of mass-produced furnishings, Southwest kitsch, and Central Asian throw pillows and ceramics. And the top layer: dirty work clothes on the arm of the sofa, cups and food bags on the coffee table.
“This place is a jumble,” William says. “But it’s an air-conditioned jumble.”
“I was about to faint,” Nick says.
Belle makes a face at Nick and starts opening drawers and cupboards, letting them slam and bang shut.
“Maybe keep it down?” Nick stage-whispers.
“After I ran away from my last foster home, I broke into three or four apartments,” Belle says. “How many places have you broken into, genius?”
“What are you looking for? How can we find something when we don’t know what it is?” Nick says. “And to answer your question, I’ve broken into zero places. None.”
“Wait. I’m remembering something,” Belle says. “One time in Chat she mentioned a diary.”
“A clue!” William says gleefully.
Belle rolls her eyes.
She heads for the bedroom. The room is covered in discarded clothing and smells like rank male sweat, dirty feet, and beer.
Belle rifles the chest of drawers, then roots around in the closet for a while, throwing down boxes from shelves and upending them on the bed, shoving hung clothing aside. She spots something on the closet floor. She gets down on her hands and knees in the closet and moves the shoe rack, then reaches toward the wall and peels back the carpet. Before Nick can react, she pulls part of the floor up, reaches down in a cavity, and pulls out a leather-bound book. She flops down on the bed and opens the book.
“You found a clue! Let’s go!” Nick says. He’s moving toward the door.
“Anybody read Uzbek? In Cyrillic?” Belle says.
“Nick? Don’t you know every language?” William says.
Nick shakes his head. “I’m fairly fluent in four and I can read eleven. And a half. But I can’t read Uzbek.”
Nick leans in and looks at the diary. “That’s not Uzbek. It’s Russian,” Nick says. “For many Uzbeks, Russian is still their first language. It’s been that way since the Cold War.”
Belle hears a rumbling noise and glances out the window. There’s a pickup truck pulling into the parking lot.
“Time to go,” Belle says. “Now!”
The pickup swings quickly into a parking spot and the door opens. A hulking, ruddy man in a dark blue uniform gets out.
“Uh oh,” William says. “Is that Wishkowski?”
“Go go go go go!” Belle says. She shoves the book between the small of her back and her waistband.
William rolls back the displaced carpet, then throws clothes and boxes and shoes back in. He runs through the place, tidying it up.
Nick heads straight for the door, holding it open and motioning for the other two to get out. Belle clicks the door shut.
“Come on!” William says.
“You two calm down,” Belle says. She grabs each of them by an arm and squeezes tight, then tighter, until Nick lets out a small yelp of pain.
“I’m dizzy,” Nick says
“Hang in there, buddy,” William says.
“No sniveling,” Belle growls. “And let me handle this.”
They hurry down the hot wooden stairs. Wishkowski is standing there in his uniform, waiting for the elevator to lift him up one level. He’s a tall guy and he’s carrying maybe sixty extra pounds. He’s sweating even more than Nick is. The droplets stream down his nose and drop on his belly.
The white, yellow-edged patches on his uniform’s sleeves and chest say “Border Patrol.” Even in this situation, Belle can appreciate the irony.
The uniform is pitted out right down to Jimmy Wishkowski’s bulging belt line. His neck above the collar is the d
istinctive maroon of aging alcoholics. His hand goes to the gun holstered to his hip. But then he takes a closer look at Belle and he smiles. The smile seems formal and a bit forced.
Belle thinks he looks familiar, and then he realizes that Wishkowski resembles every beloved overweight comedian that has graced the American comedy landscape in the past fifty years: straw-like hair, pudgy red cheeks, thick lips, just a touch of twitchiness.
Belle smooths her hair back. She changes her posture, widens her eyes, and beams vacantly at Wishkowski. She’s using her dumb-girl persona. Its nearly a hundred percent effective against middle-aged men.
She giggles.
Nick’s head swings around, his mouth hanging open in surprise.
Belle hopes he doesn’t blow everything for them.
“Hi, there!” she says, affecting a high, girly voice. “By any chance, sir, do you happen to know a gentleman by the name of Jimmy Wishkowski?”
Jimmy’s mouth falls open. He appears to be sincerely shocked.
“My God! Hey! I’m Jimmy!” Wishkowski says.
Belle places one hand on her hip, and with the other hand she points at her own head. “Um, hi! I’m Marina’s half-sister from Seattle?”
“I know!” Wishkowski says.
Wishkowski stands back and looks Belle up and down, mouth open.
She giggles. Again. It’s harder the second time and sounds forced to her ear, but Wishkowski doesn’t appear to notice.
“She told you about me? That’s so nice!” Belle says.
Wishkowski’s mouth is still hanging open. “Marina said you looked a little bit alike, but I gotta say, that was not true. You look like twins.”
Belle blinks her eyes rapidly for a while, exaggerating her interested expression.
“Thanks?” Belle says.
“What for, honey?” Wishkowski says.
Belle wants to shove Wishkowski back—he’s standing too close now—but she breathes instead.
She smiles and blinks even more rapidly at Wishkowski. “I mean she’s just so pretty? And nice?” She pauses for a moment. “Would you happen to know where Marina is right now, Jimmy? We thought we’d just say hi?”
Wishkowski shakes his head and frowns. “No, I don’t. I wish I did.”
“Awwww?” Belle says. “Then maybe you know where she went? When she’ll be back?”