Woe man, p.28
Woe Man, page 28
- Diana, “Book of Life” The Instruction
Tuesday 12:59 PM
About a half minute after Diana leaves, I start kicking myself for not tying her down to my sofa. Why did I let her go? I have dozens of questions I wish I asked. For example, when will any of this make sense, why was I glowing, and what was that out-of-body experience at the restaurant all about?
Thinking to catch her, I race back to the door and stare out at the empty corridor. Now what?
As I turn back inside, my tummy growls to remind me I’m running on empty. Though I know it’s a pointless exercise, I head to my kitchen and spend several minutes scrounging for scraps. Not a crumb. Did the FBI haul it all away, or did Lisa move it all to Hank’s. The only thing left is a half pint of milk in the refrigerator.
Mentally running through a potential list of priorities, I happen to glance at the clock on the stove. Shit, I don’t believe this! I was supposed to give the press an update ten minutes ago.
My schedule is toast. There is so much to do and we’re running out of time. I still need to check on Brad, talk to Lisa about Dog, and reconnect with both Jason Matthews and Jesse Phillips. I consider phoning Jason; until it becomes obvious my n-Jewels aren’t picking up a signal. What’s going on? Were Hank’s counter measures temporary? Or did the FBI only shut us down inside the building, since I was outside when I talked with both Jesse and Lisa?
I might as well push back my next press conference. In the meantime, I can run down to Hank’s twin condo on five and check in with the others.
With my plan set, I collect my purse, head out my door, hustle down the hall, and grind to a halt in front of the elevator. As I’m reaching to push the button my hair tickles the back of my neck. What is it? What’s going on? Have I forgotten something else? Since nothing comes to mind I reach again, but at the last possible second my gut tells me to use the stairwell, instead.
Doing an about face, I step five paces forward, push through the fire door, and stop cold in my tracks.
“Mew.”
My eyes drop as I zero in on the sound. “Oh, aren’t you adorable.”
A tiny gray kitten sits on the first step above the landing. My first instinct is to look over the railing and figure out how she got here.
“Mew.”
She’s just too cute to resist. Before she can scamper off, I squat low and scoop her into my arms. Straightening again, I pull her tight to my chest and scratch behind her ears. Her little purr box turns over like a well-tuned engine.
“Oh, aren’t you a sweetie.”
She has a pink nose and a short gray coat with white boots and a white strip that runs the length of her tiny face.
“I wonder where you belong.”
I flash on meeting Brad for the first time. It was Sunday night outside the lobby and I was sure I heard a kitten in the bushes.
She starts licking my finger with her tiny sandpaper tongue.
“I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”
Though I lack even a minute to feed her, abandoning her in the stairwell feels out of the question. She must agree with me, too, for she purrs the whole way back to my condo.
As soon as we get inside I rush straight to the kitchen. Then I set her on the floor and pull the milk from the refrigerator, glad at least one of us will enjoy it. When I turn to the cupboard for a saucer she pounces on my sandals, bounces off, and rolls to her back.
“You’re too cute,” I laugh.
The second I pour some milk and place it at my feet she starts lapping away. She must be starving.
“I’m going to turn on the news, while you finish your lunch. I need to catch up.”
The task is harder than it should be, since my voice command fails to power up my wall screen. I locate my remote, which I find under a stack of magazines. Now, why would the FBI need to play with my television? As the sound comes up, I focus on a woman reporter talking with a man I recognize as the midday anchor for TWN.
“…looks as if Diana is in the middle of another so-called miracle. Just when we were finally getting used to a man changed into a woman, God choked the nuns who tried to harass Diana and Shelly Armano, the attorney for Mary.”
“Since when does God choke nuns?” the anchor asks.
“A question many people are asking, Mike…”
A picture of Jesse flashes on the edge of my wall screen. What the hell? Wait, why am I getting either the news or this call? My cable should be blocked. Could I have called through my TV the entire time? What’s wrong with me? Why am I missing the obvious? I shake away the questions before Jesse’s image goes to v-mail.
“Hello?”
A live feed of her face and upper torso fill the center of the screen. She sits behind a desk in her office looking every bit the professional in her prime.
“Hi, Shelly,” she says, getting my video from the built-in cam on my screen.
“Hi, Jess. What’s the scoop?”
“I wanted to check in with you before we lock. I called around and Simpson Media, who owns BCN, TSN and TTN, is willing to pay thirty-two million—or two million more than TWN. How important is it for you to get Damon Lee?”
“Holy crap, Jesse, thirty-two million?” My knees give out and I sink down on the arm of the loveseat behind me.
“More than you expected, right?”
“You can say that again.”
“I was hoping to get forty, but in all honesty we were stuck at twenty-five, until you announced it at your press conference. After that, they started bidding each other up.”
Her ability to banter about such large sums feels astonishing to me, though not enough to forget my conversation with Damon. “Is there any potential downside with Simpson?”
“I suppose that depends. They’re rock solid, but they insist on using Kurt Walters.”
“Ew. He makes my skin crawl.”
“Why because he’s a conservative?”
“No because he’s an asshole. His antics drive me nuts.”
“Which is why I said it depends, but…”
“But what? Come on is the extra money that important?”
“Not the money, but I was thinking about your situation. Maybe you should consider adding an enemy to join that little club of yours. That Howard guy is just the first in a long line ready to tear you guys apart. Think about it: You’re a transsexual by choice. Brad is because of her circumstances. Damon Lee is a well-known gay reporter. That puts your group far outside anything remotely approaching mainstream. Inviting in the opposition can have its benefits. For one, you could keep an eye on a major player, maybe even figure out how to use him to your advantage.”
Her point has merit. Turning, I discover Kitty playing with a balled up tissue. Is Jesse offering help or is she spinning it to get the extra commission?
“You thinking?”
“I am. Give me another sec.”
“Sure, I’m going to put you on hold one minute. I have another call.”
As she clicks off I spend a moment pondering my options. If I had a better impression of Damon I wouldn’t second guess this. Still, Jesse could be right: Should we stack the deck against ourselves right out of the gate?
“Mew.”
Glancing down, I find Kitty battling her tissue. For a kitten that should have excellent reflexes she seems a tad clumsy. “Hey, Kitty.” I motion her closer, but she ignores it.
A random image flashes through my head and I picture pulling Brad from that taxi. She was a mess. Her arm shot straight out in front of her body and stayed there, her tongue rolled spastically about her lips, and then I had to prop her up the whole way back to her condo. In essence, she was dealing with a disability. And why not? Her brain was telling her to work the old muscles she was accustomed to—muscles which had undergone significant change. In a way, it reminds me of learning to go pee again after my sex change surgery. Something completely mundane to others became a major challenge.
A distinct click tells me my time for reflection is up. I turn back to the screen.
“You think it through?” Jesse asks.
“I did.”
“And?”
With Brad still in mind I decide I want a reporter who knows what it means to face a challenge, not one without the slightest clue. “Let’s go with Damon.”
“You got it. I should be able to wrap it up for you in another fifteen or twenty minutes. You still banking at First National?
“I am.”
“Good. I’ll have them deposit 500K in your trust account and put our guys on the rest. By the time they’re done the IRS will owe you money.”
Five hundred thousand dollars in my trust account? Good grief, I feel flush when my clients give me five or ten thousand toward their legal fees.
“That going to work for you?”
Her question points out I missed part of the conversation. “Why would the government owe us money?”
“Think of it as an advantage of being rich and famous.”
“This is all on the up and up?”
“Look at this way: The IRS gets a slice of the pie, since at this point it’s technically all income. Don’t worry about that for now. Just use the trust for any expenses that pop up, keep receipts, and hire a decent accountant for God’s sake.”
“And what about the rest?”
“Have you ever met Tim Meyers?”
“No, does he work for your firm?”
“He’s one of our senior partners—a true financial genius. All our clients want their money to work for them and he knows how to do that. He’ll triple your original capital in three to five years.”
“How?”
“Does it matter at this point?”
I shake my head. “No, I guess not. Maybe nothing matters if I can’t figure out how to get us out of here.”
“Sorry, I can’t help on that score. Wish it were otherwise.”
“You’re not the only one. Anyway, when should we expect the interview?”
“TWN will call you to work out the schedule. Sorry we’re running up against your deadline.”
“No problem. I was originally thinking to make the East coast news cycle, but this thing is way beyond that now. Thanks for helping out.”
“Sure, and by the way, you picked the right guy.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, I called around. Damon Lee’s earned a reputation as an opinioned guy, but he’s smart and professional when it comes to his work. You could do a lot worse. Oh, there is one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you to think of me as a greedy person.”
“Jesse…”
“Let me finish.”
“Sure, sorry.”
“I was going to say I see things in print and I don’t give a rip about that, but I do care what you think of me. I had enough money years ago. I set up a trust fund. I’m feeding babies in Africa.”
I find this news more shocking than the sums she threw at me earlier. I thought I knew her, but then she pulls this little bunny out of her cap. “I had no idea, Jess.”
“Well, I don’t advertise, but I wanted you to know that ninety-percent of the money I earn goes to a good cause.”
“Thank you for telling me. Look I need to go, but I do want to catch up. Let’s do it soon.”
“That would be nice. Bye, now.”
“Bye.”
As my screen returns to the news, I shake my head in wonder. Never underestimate the potential harm of a poorly formed expectation. Here, I was about to write her off as greedy, self-centered bitch, yet it turns out she’s an anonymous philanthropist, instead.
“Mew,” Kitty cries as a knock lands on my door.
“FBI.”
Now, what? I glance to Kitty as she pounces on her tissue, rolls over the top of it, and lands belly up. Chuckling, I reach down, snatch her off the loveseat, and hold her tight to my chest. “Don’t worry, Sweetie. You let me do all the talking, unless I give you the signal. Then you scratch his eyes out.”
“Mew,” she agrees, and begins purring as we dash down the hall.
Cracking the door, I find Agent Kevin Fox glancing down the corridor behind him.
“Hello, Kevin. I haven’t seen you for awhile. Come to apologize?”
As his head spins around to face me, he sucks in a breath. He holds my gaze a moment, but soon his eyes drift down and focus on the kitten in my hands.
It surprises me to find him looking so tired and dejected. I swear his suit is the same one he wore yesterday. Plus, the knot of his tie rests askew and it looks as if he spilled coffee on his pants. Perhaps more astonishing, I note a complete absence of cockiness—something prevalent before.
He mumbles as me, but his volume is so low it comes out as gibberish.
“What was that?”
His eyes swing back up. “Can we talk?”
It feels more a desperate plea than an order, which surprises even more.
“If we must,” I say, swinging the door wide.
Wrongly judging it an invite; he slips past before I can block the way and ends up in the middle of my foyer. Appearing lost, his chin drops and he stares at the floor.
Frustrated, I spin to shut the door. By the time I swing back, I find him grinding his palms into the sockets of his eyes. My curiosity wins out. “Kevin?” I deposit Kitty to the floor and step closer to reach for his shoulder.
My touch generates some internal jolt. He spins to face me, and ends so close I feel the heat radiating off his scalp.
I inch backward. “What’s wrong?”
As if I hit a switch, his eyes spark and smolder. “They fired me.”
“Fired? Why?” I wish my n-Jewels were working so I could dial Trace and see what the hell is going on. “What happened?”
His head snaps back. “You know damn well what. It’s because of you.”
“What are you talking about? What did I do?”
He leans into my face. “It’s that stupid fax you got.”
I ease another step backward, anxious to re-establish some semblance of a boundary. “W-what stupid fax?” I stammer as I replay our previous conversation.
“The one Sims questioned you about.”
“Harold?”
“Yes, Harold. You, know, my old partner, the one you screwed on national TV. We’ve both been sacked.”
As he presses in closer, I try to recall our conversation. “But I told him I never got a fax. Who the hell even faxes anymore?”
“It linked you to DOET. Don’t deny it.”
I shake my head as the details Agent Sims gave me start coming back. “Of course I deny it. I thought he made up all the crap to rattle me. I told him, I never heard…”
“Bullshit, it was our proof and now it’s missing from our evidence lockers. When I took it up with my team supervisor, she fired me. You did this.”
“Don’t be absurd. Think about it, Kevin. How would I get access to FBI evidence lockers? That’s insane. I haven’t…”
“Liar.”
His fingers clamp down around my wrist and he wrenches it toward my gut before I can think to react.
“Ow, stop, Kevin. Let go of me!”
My words just seem to spur him on. Pain flashes up my arm as he pins it against my breast.
“Stop! No, please, I…”
With startling strength he slams my body into the door at my back. Stars explode across the periphery. My legs give out under me. I start sliding toward the floor, but his powerful hands dig into my armpits and he jerks me back to my feet. Frantic, now, I poke my nails at the side of his face. A small scratch mark wells with blood, but it only enrages him. He swats my hand away, leans in, and then shoves his forearm up against my windpipe.
“You’re going to pay for that.”
“No, plea…”
The pressure on my throat doubles. Oxygen. I need oxygen! Darkness closes in from both sides. “Kev…uch.” Again, he presses harder. My field of vision shrinks. All I see are his eyes. With hope slipping away, I slap at his face. He deflects by aim, grabs my wrist, and pins my hand against my neck.
Random images flit past: Mike’s face, the crowd outside, that sign that said “Kill the Freak!” Is this it, I wonder? Is this it, God?
“What the hell? Get off me you little rat.”
Kevin’s arm falls away from my throat. Reprieve. Air comes rushing back so fast I gag.
“Off, you mangy fur ball.”
Kitty’s fierce growl pulls my eyes to the floor. Her tiny claws are buried in Kevin’s ankle. As he tries swatting her away I jerk my knee high into his groin.
“Fachhk,” he gags, before dropping straight to the floor.
Bending, I snatch Kitty and draw her into my chest. Then I rip the door wide on an impulse. My timing is perfect: It bashes into the side of his head with a sickening thud.
As his neck lists to the left, he expels a horrible drawn out breath. Shuddering, I dig deep and lurch down the corridor.
Chapter 41
“Crisis is the breeding ground for chaos. Now, imagine the biggest crisis ever. Once we reach the tipping point, watch neighbor turn on neighbor. I can guarantee it won’t be pretty.”
- Diana, “The Book of Life” Inquisition
Tuesday 1:31 PM
By the time I claw my way down the stairs to five, my entire body is shaking. I’m furious for letting my guard down and allowing Kevin in, but even more worried about the outcome. Was it enough of a blow? And if not, does he need immediate medical attention or will he come after me?
As I step into the hall, the elevator doors split wide to reveal Agent’s Johnson and Davies. Do they know? Without the least hesitation, I conclude it foolish to invite them into Hank’s condo and feign ignorance. “Stay there,” I shout.
Both Agents tense at the sound of my voice. I give them a second to process my appearance and then rush to meet them.
“What happened to you?” Trace demands.
With Kitty still nestled close to my chest, I motion them back inside the car. “Upstairs. My condo. Agent Fox tried to kill me.”
