Chapter 6 #2
Poetry. Lots of poetry. Medieval history. Medical textbooks, a DSM, a Tabor’s, Gray’s Anatomy, PDR, NDR, guides to prescription drugs, a Mosby’s, several books on nursing and psychiatry. No fiction, no science fiction, nothing on paranormal phenomena, nothing on psychics, nothing on the occult.
That was very interesting.
There was a definite section on ancient Rome, and some biographies—Churchill, Catherine the Great, An?is Nin—a small section of modern history, and a smattering of books on death and grieving.
Does she even know she’s psi? She has to. There’s no way she couldn’t. So what is this? She’s obviously well-educated.
Her dresser held the first clutter he had seen in the house, a jumble of perfumes, a hairbrush with strands of ash-blonde hair attached, a few crystal necklaces, earrings tossed in a small ceramic dish.
A small rosewood jewelry box held a strand of pearls, two diamond necklaces, two wedding rings—both antique, probably heirlooms—an East Santiago High School class ring, a pair of antique ruby earrings, her father’s dog tags, and a few bits of rhinestone costume jewelry from the twenties.
There were a few crumpled bits of paper, a Mason jar almost full of spare change, an old driver’s license…
and a clear glass paperweight, bubbles frozen forever.
There was no mirror in her room, which he also found intriguing.
The picture forming from her possessions was a very interesting one.
Her closet held several different pairs of scrubs, some dress shirts, slacks, a few business suits.
No dresses, and no heels, either. Her shoes were serviceable nurse-shoes, sneakers, sandals, and one pair of engineer boots that had seen heavy use.
Boxes in the back of her closet were labeled: Estate, Bills, Taxes, Personal, Photos, and Diaries.
He ached to open up the “Diaries” box or the one labeled “Personal,” but he didn’t have time. She could come back at any moment. Zeke might not be able to call and warn him.
However, the “Diaries” box gave him a clue.
A few moments of searching found a red Miquelruis notebook in the drawer of her nightstand.
He stood, his feet placed carefully on either side of her fuzzy pink slippers dropped carelessly next to the bed, and opened the book, feeling a twinge of conscience that he hadn’t felt in years.
I have to know, he told himself. So I can keep her safe.
Her writing was firm and clear, beautiful just like the rest of her. He scanned through accounts of days spent on a psych ward, patients identified only by first initials, fellow nurses given titles like “Sourface” and “Sleepy,” and wondered if Rowan had any idea how desperate she sounded.
—managed to calm him down, but not before Head Hatchet yelled at him to stop being such a baby, which just made it worse.
The woman has no compassion, she could see he was suffering, she just wanted to get to lunch.
I did, too, but I couldn’t have eaten anything if I hadn’t made sure he was okay.
He just wants to feel like someone’s listening, they all do.
Why is that so hard for people to understand?
—guess I am going crazy. If I didn’t know I was mostly sane and that it’s a repetitious objective phenomenon I would sign myself in. But it seems to work, so I just keep waiting for the day everything comes crashing down. Making no sense. Don’t have to make sense here, it’s just my rambleramble.
—The thing I can’t understand is, if Dad’s right and these “feelings” are real, which they seem to be, why can’t everyone have them? I just want to be normal. Please God, make me normal.
Written in capitals, underlined, taking up a whole page:
—DON’T THINK OF UNPLEASANT THINGS.
Good luck with that, he thought.
—Hilary tried to fix me up with another one of her “friends” tonight. Disaster. He looked like a snake and acted like one, too, swallowing his chicken cordon bleu whole and yapping about his ex-girlfriend the weightlifter—
Delgado’s breast pocket vibrated, startling him.
He closed the diary, placed it precisely back, and then closed the drawer.
There were a few other items in there—tissues, a battered romance novel with a ripped cover, a small bottle of sleeping pills—that would bear further examination later if he had time.
“Delgado,” he said into the phone.
“You want the bad news or the bad news?” Henderson said.
“Christ, you mean I’ve got a choice?”
“Sigma’s in town. Looks like the telem leakage brought them.”
“Fuck.” Del’s stomach flipped. He forced it down.
“Yeah. They’re doing sweeps. Haven’t found a goddamn thing yet, but it’s a matter of time before they trace us to that house. And once they’re in the neighborhood—”
“They’ll find her.” Delgado crossed to the window and looked out. Her window looked south onto the back yard, sunlight making a rectangle on the hardwood floor, filmy white drapes on either side. “Goddammit.”
“How powerful is she, Del?”
“Too powerful to let Sigma get their claws in. You know what they do to the strong ones. But this one’s fragile, General. Doesn’t even know what she is. Thinks she might be crazy.”
“How soon can you bring her in?”
“Depends on her. Don’t want to spook her.”
There was a long, crackling silence. Delgado had never said anything even remotely like this to the old man about a potential. “Are you personally involved with this one, Del?”
“I guess so,” he answered. “I don’t know why. Just instinct, maybe.”
“Be careful. But if it comes down to it, bring her in kicking and screaming.”
Relieved, Delgado let out a short breath. “You got it. What’s the bad news?”
“I still haven’t ironed out that bug yet,” the General said heavily. “And Blake’s team lost another operative.”
“Fuck.” That made the second in two months. Sigma was hunting them down like dogs.
“Yeah. Look, I’ve got to go put out a few fires. Can you spare Zeke? I need manpower.”
“Sure. Just leave me some wheels. I’d hate to have to steal.”
“You got it. Be careful.”
“Absolutely.” Delgado hung up.
It wouldn’t be more than forty-eight hours at most before Sigma found her if they started scanning in sweeps out from the abandoned house.
She was less than four blocks away—right in their critical zone.
They would scoop her up, fill her full of Zed, and brainwipe her as soon as they realized she was an untrained psi.
She’d spend the rest of her life with a Sigma handler, doing work for the black side of the government.
The thought called up an irrational flare of anger. You don’t even know this woman, he cautioned himself. You don’t know anything yet. And really, Delgado, you’ve done everything but sniff her panties now. You’re sick. Do your job and get the hell out of here.
He wondered why she didn’t have any pets while he bugged her bedroom and the kitchen, and he spent another few minutes locking the back door and setting up a few countermeasures that should at least keep her from random Sigma probes.
If they were doing concentrated sweeps the counters wouldn’t be very useful, but at least he’d know once Sigma came calling.
Unless she did as she’d done last night and blew out the probes.
How am I going to make contact with her?
She’s well-insulated, if I read her right, not a lot of social contact outside her job and her father.
And she’s sensitive. I’ll probably rub her raw.
He retreated down the street, deep in thought, the used latex gloves stuffed back in his bag.
How the hell am I going to make contact without spooking her?
His phone buzzed again. He ducked into an alley between two fences and flipped it open. “Delgado.”
“Del?” It was Zeke. “Get your ass out here, man. We got problems.”
It took less than a second for his brain to click into “work” mode. “Where?”
“Corner of… Maple and Seventeenth, Shop’N’Save parking lot. I’ve marked a Sig transport, Del.”
Delgado took a deep breath. His heartbeat slowed, adrenaline copper on his tongue, iron training smashing down his body’s instant reaction to the news. “Okay. Are they engaged, or surveilling?”
“Surveil, it looks like. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.”
“Relax, Zeke. There’s a bike I can boost and be there in minutes. Just monitor them. If they go from surveil to engaging, or if you even think they might, call me again, okay?”
“You got it.” Zeke still sounded pale. “I’ll call you if they move.”
“How long ago did she go into the store?” He was already scanning the empty street, planning his approach.
“Thirty-six minutes. Jesus. Jesus God, there’s Sigs here.”
“Relax, Zeke. They could just be hungry.” Delgado hung up, and took out his wallet. It was time to do something just a little bit illegal.
Two minutes later, five hundred dollars were left in an envelope in a mailbox, and Delgado had stolen a motorcycle. The money would help whoever actually owned the bike—he hoped.