The Fresco (14 page)

“Exactly. I'm moving upstairs and you'll have to make other arrangements.”

“Aww, Angel!”

“I don't want to hear it.”

“You can't just move out on me. I'll keep this place.”

“My name is the only one on the lease. From now on, I'll take care of my business, you take care of yours.”

She went into her bedroom and closed the door, refusing to come out even to the sound of breaking crockery. When he left, twenty minutes later, she called Mrs. Gaines and told her she'd be moving as soon as possible.

WEDNESDAY

In the university town where Angelica and Carlos were living, in a precinct house not far from the Morningside Project, a grizzled sergeant crouched over a pile of paperwork, chewing the end of his pen and trying to remember what it was his wife had asked him to bring home after work. She'd offered to write it down, he'd said he'd remember, now he didn't remember. Like a damn ritual. Why didn't he let her write it down, for crissake?

A voice bellowed from the glassed-in office behind him.

“McClellan!”

“It's right where you put it when I gave it to you,” the sergeant muttered, not looking up. “Top right-hand drawer.”

“What is?” The cop at the adjacent desk glanced up from the form on the screen. He was booking a shoplifter. “What's in the top right-hand drawer?”

“The manpower stats for last month,” murmured McClellan.

“Never mind,” bellowed the voice.

“What's got his shorts in a tangle?” wondered the cop.

“I bet he's all upset over that judge sayin' you couldn't move those pushers out,” said the shoplifter, nodding wisely. “He worked real hard to get that law passed.”

“It wasn't a law, it was an ordinance,” McClellan said, looking up. “How'd you know the captain was involved?”

“I live down there at Mornin'side,” she said. “I was one of the marchers went to city hall. Me'n my kids.”

“So you got kids,” said the officer. “That doesn't excuse you walking off with birthday presents under your shirt.”

“It was just candles!” she cried. “For the cake. A dollar niney-five for twenny-four lousy birt'day candles an all I had was a dollar fiffy an all I needed was twelve. An she wouldn' split the box up, give me half!”

The officer got up and moved toward the storeroom. “Watch her, Mac, so she don't walk off with half my computer.”

Mac shook his head. “I'm not watching. I'm not getting involved. Six more weeks, four days, three hours and I figure about forty-five minutes, I can say good-bye to it all.”

“You quittin?” asked the shoplifter.

“Re-tire-ment! Captain says he wants to take me to lunch on my last day. Every guy that retires or gets transferred, the captain wants to take them to lunch on their last day, he says, but it's just an excuse so the guys can throw a surprise party. Doesn't he think I know that?”

“They gonna give you a gold watch?”

“I said no watch. They want to give me something, give me a new fishing rod.”

“McClellan!” roared the voice.

He got up wearily and shambled into the lieutenant's office, stopping before the desk and leaning on it with both hands. “What?”

“What's this?” The lieutenant held out a sheet of paper. “It was in the manpower reports.”

“It's a tabulation of how many calls we get from Morningside, complaining about the dealers. I thought, when we appeal that judge's decision…”

“Oh, McClellan, you hadn't heard,” the lieutenant said loudly, well aware that there were a dozen sets of ears listening from outside his office. “We are no longer interested in the dealers down at Morningside. The dealers at Morningside have civil rights. They are being represented by the
ACLU in their suit against the mayor and the police force on behalf of all the upstanding young men who stand around on the sidewalk all day, every day, with no visible means of support.”

McClellan stared at him, mouth slightly ajar. “You finished?”

The lieutenant dropped his voice. “I am so close to finished, Mac, that I may retire before you do. Actually, tabulating the calls is a pretty good idea. Go on keeping a record.” He fumed, running his fingers through his gray hair, shifting his shoulders as though they hurt. “Not that it'll do any good. How much longer you got now?”

“Too long,” said McClellan. “I can remember back to when we got rid of guys hanging around on corners, giving the women a lot of dirty talk. I can remember when giving a little kid a gun would have put you away for a good long while.”

“See, that's our trouble. We remember too much.” He waved McClellan away and went back to his paperwork. “Way, way too much.”

THURSDAY

Though it was past midnight, FBI agent and sometime White House liaison Chad Riley had his driver run by the office then drop him six blocks from his Georgetown house so he could cool down on the walk home. The business with McVane had rubbed him very much the wrong way, and Chad knew exactly who to blame. The FBI had started surveillance on Congressman Alvarez by midafternoon Monday, and Chad had just picked up a report saying he'd gone to the Pentagon that afternoon. Monday. And by Tuesday, McVane had been named as liaison, and he had probably already known everything the congressman knew, which meant his cronies, if not already briefed, would be shortly. The congressman had been sworn to secrecy, but his loyalties lay elsewhere, which might have been deduced from the number of pictures of himself in uniform on the walls of his office. Major Alvarez here with General Tank, Major Alvarez there with General Missile. Military men! Damn it, they always thought in terms of hardware, black or white, our side or the other side. It was damned hard to get them to see gray at all, and getting them to tell dark gray from medium gray was impossible!

And why in hell had the intermediary taken it to Alvarez in the first place? Why not the bureau? Someone used to handling secrets! Though he shouldn't fault her in hindsight. She was a damned pretty woman, and a sensible one. He'd watched her during dinner. She'd been quiet, thoughtful, she'd listened, when she'd said anything, it had been intelligent and to the point. No, he couldn't fault her at all.

During the six-block walk he simmered down. He always tried to get himself into an easy frame of mind before he opened the front door on Merilu and whomever Merilu was being on the particular evening. Rarely it was Merilu the girl he'd married, full of laughter and bubbly charm, if one ignored that these days the laughter was more giggly than witty and the bubbles had originated in champagne. More often the woman who greeted him was Merilu the prosecutor, prepared to cross-examine him about everything he'd done since he left the house that morning. Or Merilu the alpha wolf, growling at him for not paying enough attention to the boys. Or Merilu the martyr to politics, who wanted to leave the corruption and clamor of Washington and go back to Montana.

All of which multiple-personality stuff had started when the twins had reached school age. When Jason and Jeremy were born, Merilu had decided to take a year off to be with the babies. The year had turned into six. Now the boys were in school all day, and Merilu was bouncing off the walls, regretting that she'd given up her career for motherhood.

He'd tried patience. “Merilu, you said yourself your career would only have lasted a year or two more.”

“It was an important year or two, Chad! I'd have made contacts. I'd have set myself up to move on…”

He'd tried reality. “On where, sweetheart?”

She'd never considered on where. Where did one move from being spokeswoman for a commuter airline? From being a sparkle on television, a smile in photographs, a warm cushiony voice-over for tourist-targeted infomercials about destinations along the air routes. It was a job that let her do the things she liked to do, like having her hair done, getting a manicure, having a makeup job, and being dressed in de
signer clothes so people could look at her. People had liked looking at her. Chad had liked looking at her. And being with her. Of course, back then Merilu had been habitually and refreshingly frank. Even if she hadn't quit to be with the children, she herself had said she'd have to find something else to do because the job wouldn't last forever. Then, she'd said so.

Now, however, Merilu's mom had gotten into the act. She'd brought her poor-baby backhoe from Montana so she could dig Merilu a whine pit, a hole so dark and deep there wasn't a hope of getting her out. Not unless—so she said—she moved back to Montana, which would magically create some kind of insta-ramp, out of the pits and up to cheery-dom. It all depended on Chad, of course. All he had to do was request a transfer.

Chad was dragging his feet. Hell, he was dragging his whole damned body! He could get a transfer, probably, maybe even without a cut in pay. Of course, doing that meant he'd give up his own career ambitions, which Merilu, with typical inconsistency, considered only fair since that's what she'd done, never mind that she'd chosen to and he hadn't, never mind that he'd been making enough to afford a full-time nanny, but Merilu hadn't wanted that, never mind that she was twenty-six and he was thirty-nine. The thirteen-year difference hadn't seemed like much when she was twenty, but lately it had opened up into a generation gap! At least she hadn't used the D word, which he did not want to hear. That is, he thought he didn't want to hear it, not now, though he could feel himself getting more and more used to the idea.

He put his key in the lock and stepped into a silent house, where he held his breath and let it out slowly. Not a sound. Nothing in the living room, not in the dining room, kitchen…note on the refrigerator.

“Chad, Mom's in town for three days and she's asked me and the boys to have dinner in her suite at the hotel. There's a pool and a spa, so we may stay for awhile. Don't expect us until late tonight or sometime tomorrow.”

He sighed, realizing with slight shame that it was a sigh
of relief. He could have a shower sans nag; a drink or two or three sans whine; a lazy loll in front of the tube sans whimper from the background. Lord, Lord, why did men and women try to live together? Those South Pacific tribes that had the men and women living in separate houses had the right idea.

It was so peaceful that maybe he would even explore how he felt about two sari-clad women going up in a puff of nothingness at a top secret dinner which he had attended as liaison. He had made a point of approaching them and handing them things several times during the evening. He would swear they were material, real, living. He had sat across from the one who called herself Indira. She had smiled, joked, laughed, her face crinkling up in real humor. Then, poof, gone. He had suspended judgment, half expecting the bureau lab rats to come in and announce it had all been a trick, but the technicians were still examining the tapes, as baffled as everyone else.

Real aliens. Who had come to help the United States with, how had they put it, those “small areas that need adjustment.” That was the height of arrogance. Sure there were problems in the world, but damned if Chad would call any of them “small areas that needed adjustment.”

But the woman, Benita, she had been something different. Not only pretty, in a very natural way, but charming. That level look she gave you. The way she listened. That was really it…the way she listened. Chad felt he had not been listened to so genuinely in a very long time.

THURSDAY

Elsewhere in Washington, General McVane had made a number of hurried phone calls rousing people from sleep and was now with “Dink” Dinklemier on his way to a small, out-of-the-way hotel previously owned by a drug trafficker, recently appropriated by the DEA and currently being “managed” by a semiretired CIA employee. Called Holiday Hill, it was often used by Washington spooks for stashing witnesses, hiding informants, or holding impromptu meetings.

“J'you get hold of Arthur?” Dink asked.

“He's picking up Morse, and they'll meet us. What about Briess?” Briess was the CIA link.

“He's in California,” Dink replied. “I left him a message.”

Except for this exchange, their journey was silent, unbroken even when they arrived at the hotel and went directly to a small second-floor meeting room.

“Turn the heat off!” McVane complained. “It's ninety in here.”

Dink obligingly turned down the thermostat and opened the two windows to the cooler night air while McVane loaded a tape into a player and called downstairs for refreshments.

“What's that smell?” he asked.

Dink sniffed. “Something outside. I thought I'd cool the room down, then shut the windows.”

“Smells like…what? Smoke? Hot tar?”

“Probably odors from the kitchen, General.”

“Let's not eat here, then,” he snorted, turning on the tape player to be sure it worked.

The tray of drinks arrived only moments before Arthur and Morse, the senator already in a state of outrage.

“What the bleep?” snarled the senator. “It's bleeping midnight.”

“We figured you'd want to know about it,” said Dink. “Remember what we told you about last time we met? The unidentified objects flying from A to B to X. Well, McVane tells us X turned out to be right here. This tape was made earlier tonight. I think it'll be self-explanatory.”

He pushed the button. The dinner party was on the screen. There was, however, no Indira, no Lara. There were, instead, two totally inhuman creatures who darted and clicked their way around the room and who ate, once dinner was served, in a peculiarly disgusting manner. At least, so thought the senator, though he knew he was more sensitive to such matters than many of his associates. He watched, both repulsed and fascinated, all the way through the speeches, the envoys' explanations and farewells, and the disappearance of the envoys.

“They just vanished!” said McVane. “Like a puff of smoke.”

“The woman,” said Morse. “The so-called intermediary. Who is she?”

McVane answered. “Her name is Benita Alvarez. We're not supposed to know that, Senator. We got the information from Congressman Alvarez. She's some kind of seventh cousin twice removed. General Wallace was in Alvarez's office when the woman brought him a kind of cube thing that delivered the message. He, in turn, brought the thing to the president. I first knew about this on Monday, when I attended a Cabinet meeting at the White House. The real intermediary doesn't look like the woman on the tape, by the
way. She's younger and better looking, and she has dark hair.”

“She could be anybody!” Morse exploded. “A Chinese agent. Somebody planted before the wall came down! I want her, McVane. I want to talk to her right now!”

“When we find out where she is, Senator. I had arranged to follow her from the meeting, but the White House managed to be obstructive, as usual. It's only a matter of a few hours before we find her, but as you pointed out, it's after midnight.”

“So these damned monsters will teach us to be neighborly,” fumed the senator. “Teach a fox to eat chickens! You find that woman. You bring her here. Put her down in the basement rooms, where we can have a very private little talk. You bring somebody from that spook factory of yours, too, so we can be sure she's telling us the truth…”

“Before you consider torture or drugs, you might try just talking with her,” said Prentice Arthur, his lip curled in distaste. “As yet, we have no reason to suspect she's anything but an ordinary American citizen.”

“You believe that, you believe in the tooth fairy,” sneered the senator. “No, Prentice. I've seen this coming. All the science fiction and the TV series and the movies! We've had aliens pushed down our throats for decades! Softening us up. When we hear the word
alien,
we think of ET and little boys riding bicycles across the full moon. We think of close encounters, with musical starships. Do you think that's all coincidence? A fad? Let me tell you, it's purposeful, it's arranged. Now they're ready for the takeover, and they've got us so well softened up, they figure we'll go along, no hassle, no fighting. Well, they've figured without Byron Morse. Get me this woman! I want her.” He paused a moment, chewing at the corner of his lips. “Does she have family?”

“A husband in Albuquerque, two children in college in California.”

“Well, while you're at it, I want them, too. All three of them.”

Even McVane looked startled at this, and Prentice actu
ally attempted to disagree. “Senator, you're being precipitous…”

“I'm being fucking decisive,” Morse snarled. “And it's damned well time! You're a lawyer, Prentice! Get some writs or some congressional subpoenas going. Issue them in the name of the committee. We oversee intelligence, damn it, and this woman's family may have information crucial to intelligence.”

“Surely we can take a little time…”

“You think I'm out of my head? Hmm? Well, you just go along with me. And you watch the news. Pretty soon you're going to see things happening. Things you can't explain. Oh, those aliens on the tape, they'll explain it away, but there'll be people dead, or people missing. When you read about it, you remember what I'm telling you. Until then, just do what I ask and pretend you believe in it! Now get off your ass and take me home!”

Dink left with Arthur and the senator. McVane gathered up the tape and his briefcase, then went to shut the open windows. The strange smell was even stronger than it had been initially, an acrid stench, and he leaned out, searching the area for signs of smoke. Nothing there but a line of trees, some of which had been chopped off and regrown from the crown. He searched for the word. Pollarded. Ugly, in his opinion.

“McVane,” said someone from nearby.

He jerked upright, banging his head on the window. “Who's that?” he snarled.

“McVane,” said the voice again, from outside.

He leaned out the window, one hand cupped protectively over his head. “What?”

The voice was mechanical, artificial. “The Pistach are not the only race desirous of working with your people. Others are very interested, and others might offer better terms than the Pistach.”

McVane stood very still. He could see no one outside the window, and the voice gave him no hints. It was directionless. “Who are you? Why did you come to me?”

“We are members of
Shalaqua,
General. It is a…cadre,
military, like yourself. We came to you because you were at the meeting. We followed the Pistach to the meeting. You and we may be of great service to one another. To discuss, however, we must arrange to meet.”

“Who…who would you like to meet with?”

“The persons with you tonight. The senator. His agents. You. Your agents, if you like.”

“Where? When?”

“Four day from now? Hmm?”

“Monday?”

“If it is called that. At darkspin, you gather others. You go somewhere distant from the city.”

“Darkspin?” McVane whispered from a dry mouth.

“When your world rolls into dark. Evening. Yes. We are still…accumulating vocabulary. We apologize. You go into the country, we will follow you, we will meet there. Four days will give you time to prepare, geh?”

“Prepare what?”

“Your safety. The senator, he will want to be safe. So with Prentice Arthur. You less so, but you are a soldier, geh? You can make secure in four days. Some armored vehicle, perhaps. We do not presume to tell you your business.”

“Monday night, at sunset, somewhere in the country,” said McVane.

“Assuredly,” said the voice. “We go now.”

McVane turned away and walked dazedly to the door, shutting off the lights as he opened it, only then remembering his briefcase. It was still on the table and he stumbled toward it in the dark, halted in mid step by a sound from outside. Squadge, squadge, squadge. Flap, flap, flap. Conscious of his dry mouth and throat, he paced silently toward the window, a mouth of darkness, standing back but looking out. Nothing out there. The trees. Not as thick a grove as he had first thought. No more noise. Nothing.

He picked up his briefcase and left as quickly as possible.

 

Outside the senator's house, where they had dropped him off, Prentice and Dink sat in the car, at the moment unwilling to move in any direction.

“Did you know he had that rat in his craw about ETs?” Dink asked. “I thought it was only pregnant women that set him off.”

“If you mean, did I know he's afraid of little green men, no, or that he believes there's an extraterrestrial conspiracy, no. I didn't know either of those things. Maybe he had something bad happen to him when he was a boy. A movie or TV show that scared him.”

“You think?”

Arthur said slowly, “I'd rather think that, wouldn't you? I mean, we occasionally work in rather…arcane ways. We…at least I try to avoid it, but it's the exigencies of the job. But…planning to torture family members just because they
might
know something…that's a little far out even for our line of work.”

“He said there'd be people dead or missing. Maybe we'd better put someone on a survey of regional and local news, tabulate any reports of people dead or missing.”

“If you do, he'll have you by the short hairs. Dink. Think a moment. Aren't there always people dead or missing?”

“Right. Yeah. I see what you mean.”

“I hope you do, Dink. Oh, yes, I hope you do.”