Spy Mom (17 page)

“Did you see his face? Oh my, it was hilarious. Poor thing.”

Now we are both laughing and I've avoided having to explain how it came to pass that I dropped our yoga instructor to the floor with the intent of crushing his throat.

I would like to turn off these impulses forever. But that does not appear to be possible. They still lurk below the surface, and when I'm not paying attention, that's when they bubble up and shock me. I leave Avery and head toward my car, badly parked two streets over. I can beat up yoga instructors with ease, but parallel parking is still not my strong suit. Leaning against the hood, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, is Simon Still.

“I thought you quit,” I say.

“I did,” he says, “most of the time anyway. This city makes me want to smoke. All the fog or something.”

“Did you follow me?”

“I've been freezing my ass off out here for the past hour and a half. What exactly is it you do in there anyway?”

“You should have worn another layer. And I'm not going to change my mind. Whatever you want me to do, I'm not doing it.”

“You don't have a choice, Sally. I wish you did but you don't. Blackford is going to find you. How are you going to explain that to your yoga friends?”

On a logical level, I know he's right. There is no way to rewind and stop the inevitable. I just hate being used.

“I wish you hadn't done it this way, Simon,” I say. “I wish you'd left me out of it.”

Simon doesn't say anything. Instead, he takes deep drags on his cigarette. Blackford is Simon's white whale, and forgetting that makes me think Simon can be rational about things. And that is simply not true.

“Tell me how you found out Blackford was still alive and I'm going home. You can fill me in on whatever diabolical plan you have later.”

“He sent me a letter, about a year ago, after being off the radar for the better part of six years,” Simon begins. It turns out Blackford was looking to kidnap me again and thought it was odd that, for all intents and purposes, I'd vanished. He was worried I was dead. So he thought he'd go ahead and ask Simon directly. I want to laugh, but am fairly confident Simon will knock me unconscious if I do. Blackford certainly knows how to push the right buttons.

“Did he happen to mention why he wanted to see me?” I ask.

“Old times' sake. Said he missed talking to you.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Nothing. What do you think? I wrote him back? That we're pen pals now? The word was already out that you were dead, but I guess he ignored that part.”

“And this professor?”

“I thought you said you wanted to wait until tomorrow?”

“Shut up, Simon. What about this mysterious professor?”

“We think Blackford is working with Professor Malcolm on a new biological weapon, something devastating. We assume this project is the reason he faked his death and went underground. He wanted to make progress on this new weapon without all the bothers that come with being alive. Our fear is that it is almost ready for delivery to Blackford's pals—North Korea, Iran, the usual suspects.”

“Are you kidding? An actual mad scientist?” I say. “What is going on, Simon? Are you out playing golf all day? Is anyone minding the shop?”

“Calm down, Sal,” Simon says. At which point I grab him by his coat collar and lift him two inches off the ground. Simon is a few inches taller and at least thirty pounds heavier than I am. He is surprised to be two inches off the ground. His hand swings automatically to the .357 magnum, about the size of my right arm, tucked in his shoulder holster. But he doesn't pull it out.

“You are making a big fucking mess of my life,” I say, “and I want you to know I don't appreciate it.”

“Put me down, Sally.” Which I do. “And don't do that again.” Which I won't. Simon smooths out his coat. I really should go home. This night is getting ridiculous. Who knows what I'm likely to do next?

Simon holds open his box of cigarettes, offering me one.

“No,” I say, swatting his hand away like a three-year-old.

“Gee, Sal, you're not much fun anymore,” Simon says.

“I never was, remember?” I say, slipping into the front seat of my car. Simon doesn't move, still leaning against my hood. I roll down my window.

“I'm leaving,” I say. “And I will run you over if you don't move.”

“When I call,” he says, “I suggest you answer.” And with that he flicks his cigarette butt over my roof and walks away into the fog.

I sit there for a minute, trying to focus all of my hate on Simon, thinking maybe I can use my mental energy to cause him to spontaneously combust or something. Alas, nothing happens and he disappears down the street.

When I get home, Will is in his office pounding away on his laptop. I put myself between him and the machine.

“How was your class?” he asks, trying to peer around me to his computer screen. “Are you still mad?”

“No,” I answer. “I'm feeling very centered now.” I do not tell him about how I assaulted my instructor. I do not tell him I was considering strangling my old boss.

“I'm getting the sense you don't want me to finish up here,” Will says.

I slide my hands under his T-shirt, his skin warm beneath my fingers. “What gives you that idea?”

“Oh, you know, it's a thought,” he says.

“You are very wise.” I take a small nibble of his ear. It's salty from his afternoon workout. He pushes his laptop aside, picks me up, and puts me on the edge of his desk.

“Did all that yoga make you flexible?” he asks, burying his face in my neck. “Can I do obscene things with your legs?”

“Sky's the limit,” I say.

Preschool days are chaos. You'd think with my background getting a small child fed, dressed, out the door, and into the car wouldn't be a big deal. Right.

“What would you like for breakfast, pumpkin?” I ask, as Theo races his Hot Wheels cars around my feet. “Waffles, pancakes, French toast, oatmeal?” I've been told never to give too many choices to children under eighteen. Clearly I haven't learned my lesson.

“French toast and waffles.” He shoots one of his cars up my pants. “Whoa! Look at that go!” He stuffs his small arm up there too, in hot pursuit of the car.

“How about French toast?”

“How about spaghetti?”

“Spaghetti isn't a great choice for breakfast.”

“Why?”

I have no idea. But it's not on the list.

“Because,” I say. Theo makes a face that says I'm not trying hard enough.

“Meatballs?” he counters.

“How about waffles?” He shrugs.

“But no gross brown spots.” It's always nice to have a child innocently point out your flaws, like my inability to make a waffle without burning it a little bit.

I pull out the waffle mix and get to work, trying to avoid the so-called gross brown spots lest I start a breakfast-related hunger strike before school. Theo eats the waffles on the kitchen floor, surrounded by his cars. School runs from 9 a.m. until noon, twice a week, the longest, most anxious hours of my life. The school is small and well protected, with one way in and one way out, all things I looked for in a place. While everyone else was obsessing over the quality of the teaching staff, the ratio of teachers to students and how well the kids tracked to the good elementary schools, I was looking for a place from which it would be difficult to abduct my child. I leave all the breakfast dishes and pull clean clothes out of the dryer for Theo. He barely acknowledges me as I yank off his pajamas and bend him into his daytime clothes.

“Okay, time to get moving,” I say, grabbing my bag from the cluttered kitchen table.

“No. Not ready yet.”

“Yes, you are. We're out the door.”

“No. Not ready yet.”

I try not to get irritated. I really do. I mean, he's only three. It's not like he's purposely trying to drive me insane. Or is he? I reach down and scoop him up under an armpit. He howls in protest.

“I'm not finished!” he wails, still clutching at least one of his cars.

“Yes, you are. The race is over. That guy won.” I point to the car in his hand.

“Nooooo. That guy never wins.”

“Maybe today was his lucky day?” My suggestion is met with a pout, after which Theo folds himself into a ball and refuses to move. I pick up the whole of him and, after a struggle, get him strapped into his car seat and ready to go.

By the time we arrive at school, he is sunny and bright and can't wait to get out of the car and start his day. All in two miles. Remarkable.

After I drop him off, I walk one half block down to the Java Luv. Leonard, the tattooed barista, automatically hands me an espresso shot.

“Morning, Lucy. How's things?”

Oh, what a question! You don't want to know.

“Fine,” I say. “Thanks for this.” I toss back the espresso and leave the cup on the counter. In about thirty minutes, I'll order a latte and a cinnamon bun and make them both last until Theo is dismissed at lunchtime.

For now I sit at my table, eyes focused on the front door of the preschool. And I don't move.

What I should have done after my nice little stroll in the jungle was to follow everyone's advice, board the next flight out, and head home to my safe empty apartment, nice warm shower, and soft fluffy towels. I should have taken my broken body, tucked it into a comfy first-class seat, charged to Simon's personal account of course, and called it a day. But I didn't. No, that would have made too much sense.

Slipped under my door while I tried to recover from my night in the jungle with Roger was an engraved invitation to the opening gala for the Grand Event Hotel. Perfect. It was comforting to know that money could still be used to buy my way into things to which I was not actually invited, at least here. I looked at my knapsack, half open on the still-made bed. One clean white T-shirt, one pair of khaki pants, flip-flops, toothbrush. These items screamed tourist, not gala, which was kind of a problem.

The seamstress was Rangsey's cousin's wife's daughter-in-law. Or something along those lines. She was startled at my rather bedraggled appearance.

“We need much fabric to cover all this,” she said, kindly pointing out the cuts, scrapes, and bruises that now comprised most of my skin. “Long sleeves, very tight, red.”

“Not red. Black. And not too tight.”

But at least we agreed on the need for long sleeves. I stood before her, hoping she wouldn't swallow any of the pins in her mouth as she rattled on about how this fabric was very forgiving and wouldn't cause me additional pain. Only I would end up using “potential to cause pain” as a criterion for selecting a dress. Every time this tiny woman touched me I wanted to scream. But I bit my lip and let her work her magic. The vague pattern of a dress way too sexy for me began to take shape.

“Can I wear that?” I asked her, in all seriousness. She gave me an incredulous look.

“I make, you wear,” she said with authority, and that pretty much settled that. Within minutes, I fell asleep on the tattered sofa in the main room of the shop and stayed like that until, a few hours later, the seamstress shook me awake.

“Done.” She held in front of her a sleek black dress with long bell sleeves and no back. The fabric draped to the floor in an elegant puddle. Not exactly the subtle I'd intended, but how could I argue when I was sleeping? I wiggled into it with some assistance and appraised the result in the full-length mirror.

“Wow. Nice work.”

“Look good. You go to Grand Event?”

“Yes. Tonight.”

“You stop show.” Uh-oh. I peeled the dress off and pulled my own clothes back on, thanking her for her speedy work.

Rangsey met me outside. When I showed him the dress he made a strange face. “Sally in a dress. Interesting.”

“Jeez. You'd think I never, you know, wore anything but this,” I said, gesturing at my dull clothing.

“You don't,” Rangsey pointed out.

“You're right. But I could if I wanted to.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“You're no help at all.”

“Okay.”

“I need some black hair dye if I have any chance of getting away with this.”

“Okay. But, Sally, where are you going to keep your gun in a dress like that?”

“I don't know. I think I lost it in the jungle anyway.”

“Oh, Sally,” he said, sounding not unlike a disappointed parent. “Should I get you another?”

“No! Guns are dangerous.” Rangsey rolled his eyes. Cambodians are fond of their guns.

The Grand Event Hotel was indeed grand, even for this outpost of civilization. Several fountains lined the long, curved driveway of the new hotel. Lights twinkled in the pools, like a reflection of the night sky. Inside, the entry hall was all gold leaf and marble and towering columns and rich upholstered furniture that promised to swallow you whole. Tuxedoed men passed trays of champagne and food that looked like it had been imported from New York. The guests, too, looked like they were mostly imported. I could feel the eyes on me the moment I walked through the door and I wondered why I'd let Rangsey's aunt's cousin's mother-in-law talk me into the three-inch stilettos. I was now taller than almost everyone else in the room. So much for blending in and being inconspicuous. I spotted Sovann right away, surrounded by his crew. He looked right at me, my first test. And nothing. No recognition. All it took was a fancy dress and jet-black hair and I was unrecognizable. I really had to do something about my wardrobe.

I was here with a vague notion of a plan, something about a last-ditch attempt to convince Sovann not to betray the Blind Monk and start a war that none of us had any hope of controlling. In my book, the controlled and orderly flow of illegal weapons was preferable to the complete chaos that a Blackford main event would bring. I was banking on Sovann being surprised enough by my being alive and here at the Grand Event that he'd have no choice but to listen to me. The trick was not to let the Blind Monk see me first.