Page 89 of Identity Unknown
“I think that’s to be expected when someone she once loved became her mortal enemy,” I reply, feeling the heat of my rage.
“Once loved?” Tron stares straight ahead. “I’m beyond believing that Lucy can be objective about her. Or that she hates her as much as she claims.”
Tron is driving less aggressively, perhaps because I’m sitting next to her in awful weather. Or maybe what we’re discussing is causing her mood to shift. I wouldn’t have guessed before now that her feelings for Lucy run deep. Deeper than work. Deeper than friends.
I don’t know if Lucy feels the same way. Or if she’s been with anyone since Janet and their son contracted COVID before there was a vaccine. By the time Lucy could get to their flat in London, it was too late.
CHAPTER 32
Puddles splash the undercarriage, trees thrashing in the wind, the Old Town Harbor shrouded in fog, the moored boats ghostly. It’s 7:15 when we reach Benton’s and my eighteenth-century modest estate surrounded by fencing that blends with the trees.
Tron stops in front of the closed wrought iron gate, and I tell her the code. Rolling down her window, she enters the numbers into the squawk box keypad. The gate begins to slide along its track as Lucy’s AI-assisted cameras and spectrum analyzers relay our information. Video images are uploaded in real time as databases are searched.
Facial recognition software identifies whoever it is while the algorithm mines for other information such as someone’s criminal history. Or if they have purchased firearms. Or made threats over the internet. Tron drives through, stopping to wait for the gate to close after us. She follows the winding driveway, lamplight shimmering on wet red bricks, the dark shapes of giant oak trees arching over us.
The guest cottage where Lucy lives is white brick with a slate roof, and has blackout shades in the windows. It’s hardto tell when she’s inside. The presence or absence of her government take-home car doesn’t mean she’s home or away. She could be riding with someone else or out on her tactical bicycle. But I know she’s not here now, and I remind Tron to keep a sharp eye out for Lucy’s cat, Merlin.
“He shouldn’t be out in this weather, but you know how he is,” I explain. “A part of him will always be feral.”
Rain slashes through the headlights as we near the main house, white brick with dusky blue shutters and doors. The roof is slate with two chimneys standing proud against the volatile sky. Parked in front is Benton’s SUV, and next to it Marino’s pickup truck, and my sister’s white Audi convertible with a red leather interior, a Christmas gift to herself.
I step out into the rain, reaching for my bags as I’m thanking Tron. I dash inside the house while Marino holds open the door, shutting it behind me. In a sweatsuit, he’s drinking a bottle of St. Pauli Girl, and I smell the aroma of marinara sauce warming in the kitchen while Mozart plays over the sound system. I drop my bags on top of the pumpkin pine flooring, taking off my rain slicker.
“Nice outfit.” Marino looks me up and down in my damp polo shirt and bike shorts. He takes a swallow of beer. “The unlaced tactical boots really set it off. That and your hair.”
I search his eyes for what was there earlier. But I see no trace of his old anger and hurt feelings. He and Dorothy must have worked out their differences for now, and maybe he won’t project his frustrations onto me for a while. Then thought takes form, my sister making her way down the stairs, asking questions with every step.
“Where were you yesterday? Why all the secrets? It’s likename, rank, serial numberaround here.” Ice rattles as my sister carries her drink in one hand, a bottle of tequila in the other. “Pete repeats the same things over and over again. Being evasive, in other words…”
Dorothy is partial to onesies, and tonight she’s the Jolly Green Giant because it’s springtime, I suppose. A wide sash of green plastic leaves skimpily covers her bosomy figure, her long shapely legs in green tights with built-in green feet and curled-up toes.
“And of course, whatever you’ve been doing is related to all this UAP news that’s everywhere. No point in being coy about that,” Dorothy goes on. “Was Sal Giordano abducted by aliens? I must know the truth.”
“I already told you we can’t talk about what we’ve been doing because it involves military stuff,” Marino says to her.
“What’s the answer to my question? A simple yes or no will do.” Another sip. “Did he get beamed up and tossed out? Like what happens to horses and cows when they’re found mutilated and dropped from the sky, if the stories are to be trusted? Was he pushed out after the aliens were done with him? Meaning, they’re brutes. Dear me, what a terrible thought. Who the fuck wants to be thelesser children of a hateful God?”
“Shit, Dorothy.” Marino rolls his eyes at her. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“The two of you have been someplace you can’t share, and obviously it’s related.” She directs this at me, sipping tequila, a healthy amount on the rocks.
As she continues to badger us for information, we’reinterrupted by the sound of footsteps in the dining room. Then Benton and Shannon are joining us in the entryway.
“I trust you have everything you need?” I ask my secretary.
Staying in the guestroom on this floor, she’s outfitted in a pink velour lounge suit and matching slippers. She’s drinking what I detect is Irish whisky neat, no ice, probably the Jameson we keep on hand for her visits. But now and then she commits treason by drinking Scotch, she’s admitted.
“You’ve had quite the day.” Benton hands me a bottle of water, and a Manhattan with a cherry and a slice of orange peel. “I thought you might need some warming up,” he says as thunder cracks nearby like a missile strike.
“Thank the Lord we’re together.” Shannon looks up at the ceiling. “It’s like the universe is furious and lashing out. The planet is very agitated.”
“I’ll feel better when Lucy’s home.” Parched after diving, I drink the water first.
“She’s going to be held up for a while,” Benton informs us. “She just texted.”
“It’s always something.” Dorothy rolls her heavily made-up eyes. “Nothing with her is ever as it seems. Well, it’s not right she’s not here. My only child’s not going to join us for dinner when I’ve not seen her since last week?”
“Probably not,” Benton says. “She just turned around and is driving straight back to the training facility. The cloud computer again.”