The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (31 page)

“No, Pam, nobody; just you – well, I did send the
stuttering stuff to a friend who's a speech therapist for some
suggestions; that's it. Nobody else. Really.”

“Well, you've got to take it out. If you leave it in and
publish it, I guarantee you'll be dead within a month after that.”

“Oh, Pam --”

Pam raised an index finger and shook it in Jake's face.

“No, Jake, I'm serious. Don't be naive; these people play for
keeps. Don't forget, I've been on the inside, Secret Service and the
CIA before that. Those people have long memories and they hold
grudges over lifetimes.”

“But --”

“No buts, Jake. Christ, I can't believe it. You don't seem
all that suicidal, but you're setting yourself up in ways you can't
even begin to comprehend. You like waving red flags in front of
angry bulls?”

“How am I setting myself up, exactly?”

“Okay, okay. Let me catch my breath.”

“Take your time. Want some water?”

“Got some right here, but thanks.” She took a long swig
from a bottle, then flipped open her beach chair and flopped into it,
taking several deep, deep breaths.

“Okay? Better?”

“Just another minute. Geez, I still can't believe it.”
She pulled a towel from her bag and wiped her face, throat and
shoulders, took several more deep breaths and moved her chair to face
Jake, right beside his lounge, as close as she could get.

“Okay, Jake. First, you've got to keep this totally
confidential.”

“Okay. Promise.”

“I mean it; it could be dangerous for both of us.”

“I mean it, too; promise.”

Pam dropped her voice to a near-whisper. “Okay. You know I
was Secret Service.”

“And CIA before that. I know.”

“CIA's not relevant to this. But in the Service, I was on the
PPD twice, once --”

“The what?”

“PPD, Presidential Protection Detail.”

“Ah, okay.”

“Once from '99 to '02, and again from '07 to '09.”

“Wow. So Clinton to Bush and then Bush to Obama, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Is that when you got shot?”

“No, no; that was '91, not relevant to this.”

“Okay; sorry.”

“Anyhow, I was assigned to the First Ladies both times.”

“Wow. Bet you heard all kinds of stuff.”

“Yes, I did. But I can't tell you anything about what I heard,
other than to tell you that some of the stuff I heard in the last
part of my second tour confirms what you've got in those 23 pages; I
have no idea how you got it so right.”

“Like I said, Pam, I was just taking what I got off the
internet and spicing it up for a more dramatic oomph.”

“Well, Jake, your oomph could get you killed.”

“Geez.”

“And maybe me, too, 'cause they know that I'm involved with
you.”

“Involved?”

“You know what I mean. I investigated you, I retired, I'm
sitting here with you now. What would they think?”

“Christ, how paranoid are they?”

“Pretty paranoid. Think, Jake, think. Look at what you've got
in those 23 pages, especially the last six or seven.”

“Oh, about the --”

“Shhh, Jake. Don't even mention it. You never know who might
be listening.”

“Even here?”

“Even here.”

“Geez, Pam; I didn't think. I had no idea that a little bit of
fiction would put you in danger, too. I'll take those right out,
tonight.”

“Oh, thank you, Jake, thank you.”

Pam leaned over and gave Jake an awkward hug and then kissed him on
the mouth. Then she gasped and pulled away.

“Oh, Jake, I'm sorry.” She blushed. “I'm so
embarrassed.”

“That's okay, Pam. No need to be. That was … um …
nice.”

“I was just so worried for you when I read that.”

“And for yourself.”

“That was later, much later, after I remembered what I'd
heard.”

“That's okay, Pam; it's gone.”

“Good.”

“Well, as soon as I get home. I'll write something around it.
I can figure it out.”

Pam pulled up her towel and wiped her eyes, although she tried to
make it look as if she were wiping her whole face, and then her
throat and shoulders. Jake lay back on his lounge, watching her, a
smile playing its way across his mouth. After a moment, Pam glanced
at him.

“What?”

“Again, you never fail to surprise and amaze me.”

“Why, suh, whatevuh do you mean?” Pam asked, again
dropping into her Southern accent. Then, without the accent, she
immediately followed that with, “Actually, Jake, that feeling
is mutual.”

“Why, ma'am, whatevuh do you mean?” Jake asked, dropping
into his own Southern accent.

“It's when I read your stuff, and from getting to know you and
the brain behind all that.”

“Oh, dear. I'm not sure you really want to know that.
Sometimes it gets a little carried away; the filter goes bye-bye.”

“The what? Filter?”

“Filter. That thing that we all learn to stick in there
between our wacky old brain and the mouth, so we can fit in with
society. But for me, I put it away when I get in front of the PC and
let the craziness go through my fingertips into the keyboard and onto
the screen.”

“Ah.”

“And sometimes it's tough for me to get it back and stick it in
where it's supposed to be. It sorta goes bye-bye.”

“I get it, I think.”

“Sometimes I worry that maybe someday I won't be able to get it
back, and then … and then it's off to the loony bin for ol'
Jake.” He wiped his knuckles at the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, Jake,” Pam said, “I don't think you need to
worry about that. You seem to be able to put it back when you need
to.”

“For now, yeah. But down the road? I don't know. I just
don't know.”

“Oh, Jake,” Pam said, reaching over and taking his hand
in hers and holding it tightly. “We never know what the future
will bring, do we?”

Jake squeezed her hand. “Thank you. You're right; we don't.”

“Nobody does. So we just do --”

They finished the sentence together. “The best we can.”
Then they both laughed and looked into each other's eyes.

“Look, the sun's coming up, Pam,” Jake said as the first
gleam of its rays hit her and shone brightly on her face.

“Oh, cool. It's beautiful.”

“Want to take a walk?”

“Sure. Will our stuff be safe?”

“Yup, no problem. Nobody's here.”

“Let me just take my little bag along. And I'd feel a lot
better if you brought your backup CD.”

“Oh, I don't think – okay.”

Jake pulled out his CD as Pam dug a smallish bag out of her beach bag
and threw the strap over her shoulder.

“Ready, old man?” Pam asked, getting out of her chair.

“Ready, kid. I want to show you the Wacky Future house.”

“The what house?”

“The Wacky Future house; that's what we call it. You'll see.”
Jake climbed off his lounge, with a quick assist from Pam and a
subdued creaking from his knees.

As they walked south, arm in arm and then hand in hand as they
adjusted their pace, Carie and Jill both turned off their equipment.
Once Pam and Jake had gone a good ways, Carie sneaked out of the
Collier gazebo and joined Jill up on the one in Lee County. They
high-fived and then both of them wiped the corners of their eyes.

“This is gonna be good, Jillybean,” Carie said, smiling.

“Nobody knows the future, Carie Berry,” Jill said, also
smiling.

“No, they don't,” a deep, raspy female voice said in
their earbuds. “But I can see farther into it than you two
can.”

“Don't you mean 'further,' Sharon?” said Carie.

“No, 'farther' is right,” Jill interjected.

“Now, now, you two, don't be divisive,”

“Don't you mean divisive?” Jill said, chuckling.

“No, I mean divisive,” Sharon snarled. “It's way
too early in the morning. Why don't you go get a couple of Mimosas at
Pop's? You've got time and I'll cover for you from up here.”

“Now, that's a great idea,” the twins responded. And
they did just that.

-57-

Saturday, January 7, 2012

1:33 p.m. Local time

An obscure apartment on Via Tigre

Rome, Italy

The call came over his sat phone. “Gaetano here. Hold on.”
He hit the mute button and said, “Get dressed and be gone”
to the blond Swedish beauty lying naked on the bed beside him, who
looked at him quizzically until he translated his command into his
native language, adding “You must never tell anyone about this.
Do you understand?” The boy nodded, picked up his school
uniform and began to put it on.

“No, not here; in there,” Gaetano said, pointing to the
bathroom. “And close the door while you clean yourself.”
The boy complied, slamming the door.

Looking out the window past the Villa Borghese to St. Peter's and the
Vatican in the distance, he again hit the mute button.

“Speak.” A brief pause. “WHAT? Dead? Minchia!
Where? When? How?” He listened intently, his face betraying
no emotion at all. And when he finally spoke, his voice was granite.

“An RPG? Anything to connect him back to us?” Another
brief pause. “Good. Now, when will you have a replacement?
We need it done by the original deadline.” Another pause.
“Then I will expect a full refund of the ten million.”
Another pause. “I don't care about his policy; he's dead. You
will have that back to us by tomorrow. I will hold you personally
responsible for that. Do you understand?” A longer pause.
“Do you understand?” A shorter pause. “Good, and
goodbye.” He hung up and yelled at the bathroom door, “Out,
now!”

-58-

Five Months Earlier

Sunday, August 14, 2011

9:55 a.m.

Bonita Beach, Florida

“I can see why you call that the Wacky Future house; that's
quite a piece of architecture. Those three big holes in that flowing
roof really give it a futuristic feel. And it looks like a fish from
the side.”

“Yup. I heard that the second floor floor is made of glass.”

“Glass, really? That seems really … um … weird.”

“Well, maybe it's so you can look down and see when dinner's
ready.”

“But can people look up, too?”

“I have no idea. Haven't been in there myself.”

Pam leaned back on her noodle and let her feet float up again.

“Oh, I just remembered. Gratingly.”

“What?”

“Gratingly. How's that for the word for the off-key Elvis
guy?”

“Gratingly; hmm. Yeah, I think that'll work. Where'd you come
up with that?”

“I don't know; it just popped up.”

“Just now?”

“No, yesterday afternoon, as I was writing the love scene. But
then I started reading your stuff and totally forgot it.”

“You, Pam, forget? That's my shtick.”

“Hey, it happens.”

“I've got to write that down,” he said and turned toward
the shore.

“Don't worry, Jake, I'll remember.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Once I forget something and then remember it,
especially in front of someone else, I almost always remember it
better.”

“Me, too. I think it's the negative feedback, like when I see
someone I've met once or twice and have to ask for their name again,
the embarrassment sorta locks it in better.”

“That makes sense. Did you know that guidance systems on
rockets work completely on negative feedback?”

“How's that?”

“It's like 'Oops, too far right, correct; too far left,
correct; too far up, correct; too far down, correct,' and the rocket
hits its target.”

“Oh, I like that. Can I use that in the book?”

“Sure. It's not mine; it's just physics … and rocket
science.” She smiled and Jake chuckled.

“That's right; I forgot.”

“Ah. Hold out your hand.” Jake did and she gently
slapped his wrist. “There; negative feedback.”

“Thanks, physics major. So did you work at NASA, too?”

“Just a couple of projects when I was in college; research
stuff.”

“So that's how the CIA found you and recruited you?”

Pam paused, looked around and up at the blue sky, then said, “Oh,
what lovely weather,” and then smiled at Jake, who smiled back.

“Got it. Can't blame a guy for trying.”

Pam laughed, then glanced at the shore and back at Jake.

“Not too many people here, are there? And it's almost ten.”

“It'll probably fill up a little more by noon, when the
churches are all done.”

“Ah. But there's those two girls again. You sure they're not
pros?”

“The Mimosa twins? Naw, they're just beach bunnies.”

“Mimosa twins?”

“Um, that's what I call 'em. Saw 'em drinking those at Pop's
one morning.”

“They look like pros to me.”

“Naw – wait, you mean hookers?” Jake said, giving
Pam his innocent, naive look.

Pam laughed. “Oh, Jake, no, no, no. Pros, spies, eyes, ears.”

“Oh, surveillance.” He looked up at the twins, who were
tapping their feet on their towels as they listened to whatever music
was coming through their earbuds.

“Naw, just cute little kids, kinda ditzy. I talked with them
once.”

“Remember their names?”

“Oh, geez, Pam. I did, once. Ah … nope. Gone.”

“Maybe you could introduce me to them sometime.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Just for fun.”

“Fun? I think you want to check them out.”

“Got me there, Jake. Just to satisfy my suspicions. No rush.”

“Okay; we can do that. But I'll bet you'll see they're just a
couple of ditzy kids.”

“Or ditzy chicks?”

Jake laughed. “Good one, Pam; that goes into the database.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Pam said; Jake laughed.

“I'll bet they get hit on a lot,” Pam said.

“I'd guess so. The sniffers would go after them, for sure.”

“Sniffers?”

“That's what I call 'em. The guys who come to the beach just
to pick up girls.”