Veil (23 page)

I
f it were any
other occasion, Brock would’ve been much more self-conscious. Not
embarrassed, simply more self-aware. Flying was such a hassle. Not
only a hassle for Brock, a hassle for everyone. He knew airports
were filled with frustrated travelers who suspended their
frustration only for the duration of their flight and even then
only when they finally took their seat.

When people first arrived at the airport,
they were frustrated; when they deplaned at the next airport, they
were frustrated. By default, almost everyone in the airport was
frustrated. That was a situation in which Brock did not like to
find himself. Ever. All the inconvenience youth despised so much,
inconvenience that maturity eventually—hopefully—overcame, returned
to people when they were at the airport and nearly every adult in
sight became painfully selfish and cruel. Throw into that mix some
guy in a big, slow chair, and havoc inevitably ensued.

That time, however, Brock felt like the honey
badger; he couldn’t be bothered enough to give a shit. Sure, he
noticed the usual rolled eyes, the exasperated huffs, and the men
who motioned in his direction with their boarding passes while they
leaned over and whispered disdainfully into their wife’s ear. While
all that would’ve made him increasingly self-conscious any other
time
,
he only had two thoughts as he made
his way to the boarding gate before anyone else.

In the voice of the viral honey badger:
I
get to go first. Thanks, stupid.

The James Bond-ish feeling that surfaced in
him when he received that first message from Hunter a couple weeks
prior had by then quadrupled. From secret, encoded messages between
him and Hunter over archaic networks; to acting as the intermediary
in multiple late-night phone calls with Suren and Ken; to getting
all packed-up and headed to his hometown near Washington,
D.C.
,
so he could take part in some scheme
to undermine the United States Department of Defense. He was so
excited his brain felt like it was filled with fire ants. He swore
if the enthrallment was all some ruse by Hunter to add a little
adventure to his quadriplegic life, he was going to find a way to
castrate him. Like seriously full on castrate him.

He didn’t think that was the case but he
wouldn’t have put it past Hunter. He
was
Hunter. Even so,
that would be taking things a bit far. And now that everything was
coming together, it all made sense. About as much sense as a
top-secret project could make. Brock knew nothing about it other
than the fact that the military killed a man to steal some
technology, although he developed it
for
them. Hunter was
brought in to work on the technology but planned to steal it back
and give it to the dead man’s wife. Now that he thought about it,
no, it didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

It was all a bit more Pink Panther-ish than
James Bond-ish. Ugh. Brock hated the Pink Panther. He didn’t know
which was worse, the Pink Panther or MASH. Ugh. The MASH theme song
made him think of child molesters; he had no idea why.

Brock’s whole honey badger, not-giving-a-shit
mood lasted from the minute he got out of the van at the airport
from where he departed until he landed in D.C., where he was
greeted by another van. A smiling Hunter accompanied the van at
Brock’s destination. Hunter stood next to the van with one arm
out-stretched
,
and his open palm gestured
at the van’s door. His other hand held a sign with “ELSBETH”
printed on it, which was crossed out and above it Hunter crudely
scribbled “ELIZABETH.”

Hunter always called him “Brock Elizabeth” or
simply “Elizabeth” and Brock always hated it, of course. At the
same time, he secretly appreciated it because it reminded him how
Hunter never once stopped treating him like he was a regular human.
So regularly human that Hunter never cared if he hurt Brock’s
feelings. Hunter never let anything cause him to treat Brock any
differently than he would treat anyone else
,
which included subjecting him to the signature
Hunter Kennerly jackassery.

Since Brock couldn’t give Hunter the finger,
all he could do was stick out his tongue, and so he did.

Hunter ran to him, bent down to hug
him
,
and quietly whispered instructions in
his ear.

“Don’t talk about anything in the van,
bud.”

Back to James Bond it was, then. Hunter moved
around to Brock’s side and walked along as he rolled toward the
van. Hunter signaled to the driver
,
who
used a lever to control the lift that slid from under the van and
lowered to the ground. Brock rolled onto it and Hunter held his
chair to steady him, which was unnecessary. The driver used the
lift to raise Brock’s chair until it was even with the van’s floor.
Brock rolled inside, applied the parking break, and was ready to
go.

On the ride from Reagan International to the
home of Brock’s parents
—
where Brock would
stay until Hunter was done with him
—
Hunter
performed the compulsory pointing out of landmarks, monuments,
buildings and other D.C. attractions. While Brock was somewhat
interested in them, being his first time back in the District since
they were teens, he knew if it were only him and Hunter in the van,
they’d be talking about entirely different things, so the ride
ended up annoying him instead. Brock couldn’t wait to find out what
the hell was really going on and why Hunter was so insistent on
summoning him there.

The ride was an eternity for the honey
badger
.

Around two weeks prior to Brock’s arrival in
D.C., Suren couldn’t believe what she just heard on the phone. Ken
stood next to her and tried to listen in as she held the receiver
far enough from her head to allow him to hear
.
He was too late, though. By the time he realized
something about the call was amiss and made it over to Suren, the
person on the other end finished and hung up. He didn’t wait long
enough for Suren to respond; he simply hung up.

Rude.

The last thing Ken heard from the strange
voice was: “I will be in touch again soon. Don’t do anything until
then.”

“Do what? Don’t do what?” Ken asked.

“I—I don’t know. I wouldn’t know what to do,”
Suren stammered. Although the connection was dropped
,
she still held the phone to her ear.

Ken took the phone from her and attempted to
figure out who called.

“You don’t have caller ID?” he asked. He
sounded annoyed with her, which annoyed her in return.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I didn’t even
want a home phone. It’s stupid.”

“What’s that code you can punch in to find
out the number of the last person who called you?”

“Really, Ken? The only code I remember is
star sixty-nine. Who wouldn’t remember that one, though? Come on,”
she nervously chuckled. She thought perhaps the wine was still
getting to her but that call chilled her terribly. “Ken, the person
said someone from the inside wants to help me. Someone from the
inside. That’s exactly how they put it. Someone from the
inside.”

“Inside the military?” he wondered out
loud.

“What other inside could there be?” she
asked.

“I mean, shit, I don’t know. What if it’s
some kind of trap or something? Like … what if it’s
really—
them
?”

“The military?”

“Shit, I don’t know, woman. Just them.
Whoever they are in situations like this. Like the bad them,” he
babbled. His speech was slightly but noticeably slurred. In
college, when Jin would point out Ken’s slur after a few beers and
a couple shots, Ken would claim he was simply speaking in cursive.
Yet another joke lost on Blank Stare Jin.

“I think in this case those kinds of ‘thems’
could come in here and do whatever they wanted. I don’t think they
need to call first,” she tried to reason.

“Can you tell me exactly what he said?”

“Yeah. Ok. He said my name and that he had a
message for me. He asked if Jin was my husband. He asked if Jin was
missing. He said someone on the inside knows what happened to Jin
and they want to help. He said someone on the inside is on my side
… on our side … and they can’t make contact yet but they will soon.
He said the first step was finding me. He said, to prove he was for
real, it had to do with the letter V as in Victor. He asked if that
meant anything to me. He said he’d be in touch again soon and not
to do anything. Then he hung up.”

“What in the fuck?” Ken muttered,
dumbfounded.

“Uh, you’re telling me.”

“No more wine tonight,” he decided.

Suren looked at him in defiance, as though
the madman spoke sheer craziness.

“If I’m going to have to wait, I’m going to
need more wine.” She was already headed to the bottle.

Ken had an entire night and day to sober,
ruminate, and stew. He knew the effort was pointless but he kept
going over the possibilities in his head. Who was the person that
called? Who was the inside person? Were they the same person? Is
that why the voice was disguised? What information did they have?
Did they know who killed Jin? Did they know what happened to Jin’s
body? Surely, they knew something about Veil. What all did they
know? What did they mean they could help? What did they want in
return? Did anyone ever find Carmen Sandiego?

Obviously, Ken hit the wine again that
night.

Approximately two weeks later, Hunter was
following Brock down the hallway of Brock’s childhood home.

“I hate to do it bud, but I’m gunna have to
use you,” were the first words Hunter spoke when they got to
Brock’s bedroom. Luckily, Brock’s parents weren’t home
,
so the two didn’t have to deal with them before they
could talk.

“Use me?” Brock asked through his computer as
they settled in his bedroom.

“Here, first things first,” Hunter replied,
grabbed a chair
,
and placed it next to
Brock’s wheelchair. He reached down to grab a keyboard Brock rarely
used but kept stashed in a pocket on the side of his chair. Brock
didn’t need the keyboard to communicate. All he needed to do was
use his mind to control the cursor on his computer so he could type
directly from the screen. It took a little time, but using the
keyboard would take the same amount of time, if not more. Using the
keyboard also required uncomfortable wires that had to be inserted
in him so he could control the muscles in his arms
.
Brock definitely preferred the non-intrusive
helmet-with-electrodes method, which by then was flexible and the
size of a headband.

Hunter turned the computer monitor slightly
toward himself so they could both view it.

“Better not to talk out loud,” Hunter typed.
“I don’t know if they can actually listen in right now.”

“Even in here?” Brock asked.

“Best not to risk it.”

“Ok,” Brock acknowledged.

“So yeah bud, I’m going to have to use you,”
Hunter wrote. “You’re the closest thing I have to a little old lady
who no one would think to be suspicious of, since it’s not like I
could have my mom come here to help me.”

“That bitch,” Brock typed.

Hunter laughed and quickly wrote, “That she
is! So all I have is you. I can roll you right in there and show
you off and no one would ever suspect anything. The General
included. I hate to use you like that
,
but
no one is going to look at you and think you’re some risk. Like
you’re some terrorist or some shit. In a sense, you’ll be invisible
to them.”

“You can use me however you want,” Brock
replied. As Hunter typed his response, Brock groaned and looked
over at him. Hunter stopped and Brock resumed control of the
computer to add, “But no gay shit!!!!”