Collecting the Dead (6 page)

June 18

Jens is standing at the kitchen window, a cup of coffee in his hands, when I emerge from the master bedroom still drying off from a steamy shower. He’s staring at something in the yard to the southwest and it doesn’t take much of a guess to figure out that it’s Ellis.

I smile and walk over to the calendar on the wall next to the fridge. “What’s he wearing?” If Jens was staring out the south-facing window in the den, this might be a loaded question, since Ellis likes to sunbathe nude on the deck outside his bedroom. That’s why we keep the blinds closed on the south side of the den during the summer.

We’ve had a few unfortunate mishaps.

Jens’s face and voice are emotionless when he says, “The deerstalker.”

I look at the box on the calendar for June 18, which has two entries scratched out in blue ink:
Jens—AS
and
Steps—PH
. Neither two-letter code matches the one for the deerstalker hat, which is SH. Of course, DS or DH might
seem
to make more sense when labeling the deerstalker, until you realize it’s the style of hat worn by Sherlock Holmes, hence SH.

We have to use codes so that Ellis doesn’t know we have an ongoing competition to guess which hat he’ll wear on any given day. It’s a ritual for Jens and me, one we’ve grown rather fond of. Even if he did find out, Ellis wouldn’t mind. He’d get a good chortle out of it and run off to buy a couple dozen more hats just to make things difficult.

Ellis already has hundreds of hats in his collection.

Most are highly collectible and displayed with great care in his den. These include Civil War kepis, slouch hats, and Hardee hats, an authentic tricorne from the Revolutionary War period, spiked Prussian helmets, even an assortment of early leather football helmets. Most of his hats are at least a hundred years old, and none of those are handled, let alone worn.

There are thirty-seven much newer hats, however, that Ellis wears on a regular basis. Sometimes he’ll wear two or three different hats in a single day. The AS that Jens guessed is for the tan ascot that Ellis seems to favor over all the rest. I guessed he’d wear the pith helmet (PH), a rigid safari-type hat worn in the tropics in the 1800s.

Jens actually keeps a spreadsheet to track the frequency with which each hat is worn, including the season, day of the week, etc. I just go with my gut. I know that Ellis is full of bluster in the late spring and frequently talks about biggame hunting in Africa—he’s never been—and the pith helmet seemed a good choice.

We were both wrong, but the day is still fresh and full of promise.

Opening the fridge, I rummage through the second shelf looking for a blueberry yogurt.
Peach, no; cherry, no; peach, peach, no and no; vanilla—definitely no
. I settle for the cherry. “So what was this big question you wanted to ask me?” I push the fridge door closed and peel the aluminum foil off the top of the yogurt.

Jens grimaces—
hard
. I don’t know if you can really grimace hard, or smile hard or frown hard, for that matter, but when you grimace and it looks like you’re either in pain or constipated, I call that hard. He sets his coffee on the counter with slow deliberation.

“Promise you won’t be mad?”

This doesn’t sound good
.

“How can I promise not to be mad when I don’t know what I’m
not
supposed to be mad about?” I say guardedly.

“It’s just that … well…” He throws his hands up in the air, flustered. “That was a week ago! I told you I needed to talk to you a week ago. Seven days.” He holds up seven indignant fingers—I know they’re indignant because they’re glowering at me. “It was kind of time-sensitive,” Jens adds.

“It was six days ago, and I asked you if it was urgent and you said no.”

“
Urgent
means I need an answer immediately.”

“I think that’s open to interpretation,” I reply, taking a mouthful of cherry and turning the spoon upside down in my mouth as I raise an eyebrow at him.

Jens crosses his arms. “Excuse me. I didn’t have my
Magnus Dictionary of Ridiculous Definitions
or I would have known that. In any case, it’s too late. They needed an answer, so I just jumped in with both feet—but I don’t regret it. She’s just the coolest, and I know you’re going to love her … but I know how you can get … so…”

“Wow!” I bark. “Now I’m totally confused. She? Did you get married or something?” I tease. “I know you’re not shacking up with someone. You’re the one who’s always giving me lectures about integrity—”

The look that crosses Jens’s face makes me pause and do a double-take.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The words gush from me like so much air rushing from a punctured tire. Pushing my spine ramrod-straight, I teeter on the balls of my feet a moment, then slouch over and lean in close to Jens, hissing in his ear, “You
are
shacking up!” My arm shoots up and an accusing finger is pointing down the hall toward his bedroom. “Is she in there right now?” Strangely, I’m more curious than mad.

“No,” he snaps instinctively. “Well … yes.”

My head rattles back and forth. “What does that mean?”

“It means of course I’m not shacking up, but, yes … she’s in there, and she’s a dog.”

“Shhh,” I hiss. “She’ll hear you. And that’s just rude, by the way.”

Jens looks at me for a long moment, shaking his head. “Wait here,” he says curtly. “I’ll get her.” Like
he
has any grounds to be curt.

I could be curt. I could even be terse or abrupt; I’m not the one shacking up in my brother’s house. By the time I think it all the way through he’s across the kitchen and down the hall.

I hear some muffled words—
reassuring words
? Maybe words like,
No, sweetie, you’re pretty.
And,
No, babycakes, I didn’t say you’re a dog, don’t be ridiculous
—and then Jens is back in the hall carrying her purse cradled in his right arm. My eyes aren’t on Jens, though, they’re on the door … waiting … patiently … still waiting.

Nothing. She’s taking her sweet time.

“Magnus,” Jens says as he walks up beside me, “let me introduce you to Ruby. And Ruby,” he says in a cuddly-wuddly voice that’s just revolting, “this is Magnus.”

I’m still waiting …

 … and then the purse barks … and my yogurt goes airborne.

“It’s a dog.” I say, pointing at the blond bundle in his arms.

“That’s why you’re with the FBI,” Jens smirks. “You don’t miss a thing.”

CHAPTER FIVE

June 20

I’m wearing uncomfortable shoes.

When I say I’m wearing uncomfortable shoes, I’m not talking figuratively, as in the proverbial “walk a mile in his shoes.” I’m not even using a psycho-figurative version of the proverbial, a version where I’m walking in the shoes of a phony man-tracker or, worse, I’m wearing the shoes of an FBI agent who has a badge but doesn’t normally carry a gun, and who feels more like a pizza delivery guy than a Fed.

While the figurative and the psycho-figurative might be true, when I say I’m wearing uncomfortable shoes I’m
really
wearing uncomfortable shoes, the tangible, physical, tying-type of shoes: pinching, squeezing, binding, uncomfortable shoes.

A certain blond Yorkie named Ruby peed in my Nikes last night.

It’s true.

She had ten thousand other places to pee both inside and outside the designated peeing areas, yet she chose my Nikes, my
new
Nikes, the ones that fit so well. So I’m stuck with an old pair of off-brand clogs disguised as tennis shoes. They’re a size too small and the left heel has a hole the size of Jupiter’s storm, and not nearly as pretty.

Jens told me the dog will grow out of it.

She’s just nervous.

But he said the same thing yesterday after Ruby peed on my car keys … which were on the coffee table. See, to me that smells like premeditation. The little rodent didn’t just stumble upon a comfortable shoe that time, she first had to find the car keys, then she had to get her little wiggly body from the couch to the coffee table—no small trick—after which she had to navigate around, through, and over all the myriad obstacles on the coffee table so she could hover precisely over my keys like a B-17 bomber launching an aerial assault.

Do you know what happens to electronic key fobs and chipped keys when they marinate in piddle for nine hours?

I do.

Luckily I had a second key fob hanging next to the door.

Too bad I don’t have a second pair of sneakers.

Now, instead of striding across the asphalt parking lot in front of Hangar 7 with a brisk
step-step-step
, I’m slouching along with a
step-stump-step-stump
as the hole in my left heel sucks up every piece of loose gravel or debris in my path.

When I scolded Ruby—this was
after
I put my foot into a cold wet shoe—she just fell to the floor and looked up at me with bared teeth. Jens tells me that means she’s smiling, but if a lion smiled at me like that I’d be running for the door. I advised Jens that henceforth I’ll be referring to Ruby as
the Rodent
, or simply
Rodent
.

He just smirked at me and waved it away. The Rodent smiled some more and I’m pretty sure I heard a low growl, vicious little schemer.

*   *   *

Down days—or DDs, as we like to call them—are the days in between missions, the slow, quiet days when we’re really not expected to do much, and rarely do. The first day after a mission, DD1, is usually the best. I catch up on sleep, relax a bit, maybe shop online for a book to add to my collection—I’ve been looking for a first edition, first printing of
The Hunt for Red October
, but they’re not easy to find in good condition, nor are they cheap.

Once or twice a week I go to the health club with Jimmy; he lifts and I pretend to lift. Eventually he coerces me into doing reps with him until my arms and legs are solid iron—and I don’t mean strong like iron, I mean heavy like iron: battleship-heavy, with a couple frigates thrown in for good measure. He’s like all the PE teachers I’ve ever had rolled up into one and sprinkled with Nazi dust.

I’ve never been much for working out; I always thought the term
health club
was a bit of a misnomer, since every time I leave the place I’m winded, sweaty, and fatigued, like I’m coming down with the flu. Fortunately, I’m blessed with good genes, so I don’t have to exercise much to have a good physique.

Jimmy says it’s unfair.

I think he’s just jealous of my abs.

On DD2 we’re usually in the office about half the day. Well, not in the
office
part of the office but in the break area downstairs watching a movie, or in the hangar playing ping-pong or foosball.

By DD3 Les and Marty start popping in and out, checking the plane and lounging around the break area, while Jimmy and I kill time with Nerf guns, exploding soda bottles—we like to experiment—and marathon sessions of
CSI
,
Game of Thrones
, or
The Walking Dead
. Three days is our average downtime.

Today is DD5.

“Heather Jennings called for you,” Diane shouts from the railing outside her office as soon as I step foot in the hangar. She’s waving a piece of paper in her hand, no doubt Heather’s phone number, which I’m supposed to dutifully call. Diane should know better, but she has that smug, motherly, the-polite-thing-to-do-would-be-to-call-her-back look on her face.

Heather’s the hack reporter who wrote the article for
Newsweek
last fall, the same article that labeled me the Human Bloodhound. I guess I shouldn’t call her a hack reporter, she’s actually very intuitive and thorough; the problem was she saw
everything
and understood most of what she was seeing.

To say I let her get too close is probably an understatement.

She was embedded with the team for three weeks and went on seven searches, amassing enough notes to write a book. I did my best imitation of a human tracker: looking for signs, getting down on my hands and knees with a flashlight—
in the mud!
—documenting shoe size and stride and pausing studiously at just the right moments. I thought it an Oscar-worthy performance.

I was wrong.

On her last day with the team she took me aside and called me a fraud in the nicest, most polite way imaginable, complete with a kiss on the cheek. She admitted that she didn’t know how I was doing it but knew that it wasn’t man-tracking. Still, we parted on better-than-good terms, and over the next month there were a number of dinners together, and several movies. Things were just starting to get, well, comfortable … and then the article came out.

“Don’t even start on me, Diane. I’m not calling.” She’s still waving the paper.

“Why not?”

“You know why. She stabbed me in the back.”

Ripped my heart out.

Shredded my soul.

Diane sighs. “Right. She stabbed you in the back. Why don’t you just admit that you won’t let
anyone
get close to you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. How many dates have you been on since we’ve been working together? Who was that girl that Jimmy set you up with? The fitness coach?”

“That was Emily, and she wasn’t—”

“Right. Emily. After three dates you stopped calling her. Why? Because she wanted to know more about what you do for a living. I’ve got news for you, Steps. That’s normal. That’s the stuff people talk about when they’re getting to know each other.”

Diane knows nothing about my
gift
; how could she possibly understand?

“And about Heather ‘stabbing you in the back’”—she uses air quotes to frame the words—“you have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve never even bothered to ask for her side of the story, have you?”

“Her side of the story was published in
Newsweek
for all the world to see.”