Control: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 38) Page 3

  Chalke steamrolled her way through the retreating DC officers, eyes locked on me. She looked like she had a purpose, an urgent impatience, and her usual giant steel rod firmly in place up her ass. Lucky I was wearing a ponytail, or I had a feeling she'd have chewed me out for contaminating the scene.

  Just kidding. Heather Chalke had never needed a pretense to chew me out.

  “What have you got?” she asked, about as brusque as I'd come to expect from her.

  “Conjecture,” I said. “And a cold corpse.” I pointed to the building in the distance. “You need to get forensics over there. That's where we speculate the shot came from. DC has officers on scene, so it's cordoned, but–”

  Chalke cursed under her breath. It was never gentle curses with her, either, always a string of the absolute worst, most offensive profanities known to woman. “You think the DC police might damage the scene if I leave them to it?”

  “Probably not,” I said, frowning at her leap. “They might be mad about you seizing their case, but I doubt they'd descend to that level of unprofessionalism. I just meant it'd be nice to get forensics working on the scene. See if they can establish whether that was the vantage point the shooter used.”

  Chalke's eyes flashed as she contemplated that for about a second. Then she waved over another agent. “See that building? DC police has a cordon on it. Go take it over and get a forensics unit looking for anything – hair, gunpowder – whatever. Got it?” A nod was her answer, and he was off, leaving me alone again with my boss on the balcony.

  I spared another glance for the sheet-covered figure at the edge. The red spot wasn't growing. In fact, it was turning brown with time and exposure to the air. I still hadn't looked Bilson in the face. You'd think with as many corpses as I'd seen – hell, as many as I'd made – looking him in the dead eyes wouldn't bother me.

  You'd be wrong.

  “He was working with you on this China business,” Chalke said, and there was a powerful undercurrent there. “Did it get him killed?”

  “I don't know,” I said. Who could gauge how far China would be willing to go to send a message? They'd just laid a trap for me on a boat off the coast this morning, after all. No one would have predicted that yesterday.

  “We need answers,” Chalke said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “If this was an assassination...it's going to have political ramifications. Diplomatic ones.” She paused. “Military ones, maybe.”

  I gulped. Quietly.

  “You're running the investigation,” Chalke said. “And you'll report directly to me.”

  I tried to control the widening of my eyes. “I'm...uh...this doesn't look, on the face of it, like a metahuman crime.”

  Chalke stared across the gulf between Bilson's building and the one we'd speculated was where the sniper took the shot. “Could a human shooter make that?”

  I checked the distance again. “A good one, yes.”

  “And if they were metahuman?”

  I sighed. “Then a slightly less skilled one could have made it, sure.”

  “You're on this,” Chalke said.

  “I don't have a partner,” I said, throwing up whatever objection I could. “One's on shooting suspension, the other...”

  “I've already removed Agent Hilton from suspension, because this is an emergency. You're running with this. It's not just me calling for it.” She looked down at her phone, which was buzzing. “Hang on.” She walked away, answering deferentially as she did so.

  “Ma'am?” One of the plastic suit-clad forensic workers was speaking. I looked around, trying to make sure he was talking to me. Apparently, he was, so I shuffled over to where he stood, next to a beautiful antique writing desk that faced out onto the balcony. I guess Bilson had gone with one old-school piece in his modernist decorating scheme.

  “What'd you find?” I asked, making my way over to him. I wondered if he'd discovered something the local PD had missed, or if they just hadn't gotten around to this area yet.

  “Not sure, exactly,” the forensics guy said, gesturing to the desk. It was a smooth, pretty, well-finished maple, with clean grain lines and a dark stain. It contrasted nicely with the brighter, plainer modern colors of the sleek condo. On the surface was a leather-bound diary.

  I took a proffered set of latex gloves from the forensics guy and snapped them on, opening the diary right in the middle and reading the first paragraph.

  Of course, Tech-head didn't agree. He's always buried in his machines and mission, so sure that his technocracy is the future of power. Well, he's not living in the now, that's for sure. Director agrees with me. She's clear on what power really is, at least in the now. Media Mogul and Pretender are like dogs in the background, gobbling up the scraps we throw. Tech-head doesn't understand their purpose, either, the power they wield to inform or misinform. He's so sure of his place, of his ability to control all, that it never crosses his mind that there are gaps in that control...

  “Hey, tell me something,” I said, reaching out a hand and brushing the tech's sleeve up. It wasn't a subtle move, but it didn't need to be. I planted the surface of two of my fingertips on his wrist and left them there, pretending it was absent-minded. “Was anyone else over here before you came in?”

  “Huh?” He looked at me, then at where my fingers rested against his wrist. “No. And why are you...?”

  “Another question,” I said, cutting him off without much in the way of patience or mercy. “Did you read this?”

  “What?” He looked around; no one else was close to us, the next nearest tech over in the kitchen. “Why are you–”

  His gasp wasn't quiet, but he wasn't feeling the full force of the burn yet. My powers were working on him, and I pocketed the diary from the desktop, swiftly, with my free hand and then caught him with it as his legs slightly buckled.

  Leaping into his mind, I restricted myself to his memory of the last thirty seconds, erasing it neatly by transferring it to my own mind. All thought of the diary vanished, along with his alarm at me touching his skin.

  That done, I quickly caught him before he stumbled further, wrapping a hand around his sleeve, any need to touch his skin gone like his memory of what had just happened. “You okay?” I asked, pouring on the fake concern.

  He looked around, blinking under his goggles, disorientation showing through in the crow's feet around the edges. “Yeah. I got lightheaded there for a second.” He looked at my hand, wrapped around the sleeve of his wrist. “Think I got it, though.”

  “You sure?” I kept my voice cool, but let him loose. He didn't stagger, because now that my power wasn't draining him, he was probably almost back to a hundred percent. “Thought you were going to keel over.”

  “Probably just overcaffeinated and under-rested,” he said, shaking it off. “I should get back to work.”

  “Let me know if you find anything,” I said, forcing a tight smile. I glanced to the kitchen to see if the forensic worker there had seen any of our exchange. Her back was to us, still.

  I ran a hand over Bilson's diary, buried in the pocket of my coat, a mere lump hidden away. The reference to Director had been obvious, at least to me.

  Chalke.

  He'd documented his experiences with the Network. And now I had a glimpse into their world, written by the hand of a dead man.

  With a quick glance around his living room, I found nothing going on of interest. The forensics team was still going over the place. Chalke was on the phone with someone in the hall. She was being extremely deferential, which told me who it probably was, unless she was a secret sub on the side, talking to her dom.

  I made my way back out on the balcony. Looking down at the stained sheet, I lingered before finally stooping down and throwing it back.

  There lay the earthly remains of Russell Bilson, in all their decaying glory. Not that he'd decayed much yet in the couple hours he'd been dead. His face was frozen in a pained rictus, eyes open. They looked so much different than when he was alive, though. All the
light, the intelligence that had shone in them...that was gone.

  Bilson had been a brilliant son of a bitch. I would have given him that grudging credit even if he hadn't been dead at my feet. He knew his game, and was an amazing operator at politics. The fact he'd come around to my side just today and betrayed the Network wasn't lost on me. Even with this diary, though, I was left with a million questions. Hopefully it would answer some of them.

  Not nearly as many as the man himself could have answered if he'd lived, but still.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and brushed my fingers down over his eyes, shutting them. It was the least I could do. Then I covered him back over with the sheet.

  “You're going to catch the person responsible for this, though, aren't you?” Chalke was standing at the doorway to the balcony, face indecipherable. She must have caught my last courtesy to Bilson, though what she thought of it was not clear.

  I nodded, letting my resolve show.

  “Good.” She jerked her head toward the door. “Come on.”

  My eyes flitted left and right, looking for escape. “Uh...where?”

  Chalke didn't bother to grace me with a look as she continued her stroll toward the door. “The White House.” I shouldn't have been surprised; I'd heard her talking on the phone to someone so nicely, after all. It couldn't have been someone lower than her, or she wouldn't have bothered being polite. “We're briefing the president in twenty minutes.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Julie Blair

  The keys didn't fit the lock of Julie Blair's front door very easily. They scratched across the metal surface as she probed, trying to slip them in quietly, penetrate the guts of the thing without making too much noise. It was the middle of the night, after all, and, funnily enough, everything she'd just thought about what she was doing? Left Julie a little randy.

  Maybe it was the Cosmos she'd had, an endless supply that kept coming to her throughout the day. She'd started drinking after Betsy Suffolk had asked the Secret Service to escort her out of the Old Executive Office Building. Sure, she could have gone home, but she'd just been fired – unceremoniously – from the job she'd given everything to.

  She hadn't seen her kids in the light of day for weeks.

  She hadn't felt the touch of her husband in that way – that key into her lock way – in...God, so long.

  Oh, and the idea of being able to get another job, a good one, after getting fired from the White House Communications office? Not happening in this town. Not in this rumor-monger town, where everybody knew everybody in the biz, and had probably already heard whatever story was being attached to her.

  Which was funny because Julie...Julie had no idea why she'd been fired.

  Finally, she got the key in the lock and turned it. Wrong way. God, maybe she should give men more credit. This was tough!

  With a click the door opened and she shuffled in, dropping her bag beside the door. It made a thump, but not too loud. She accidentally kicked it with her foot – that was louder, but still not too bad – and she shut the door behind her, letting loose a stray giggle for some reason as she did so. Oh, right – the giving men more credit for insertion after failing so hard with her keys so many times. That was funny to her addled mind.

  “Julie...?” Dom's sleepy voice wafted across the living room.

  She turned. He was a shadow in the dark, a silhouette with some street lamp down the block shining just enough through the obfuscation of the curtains that she could recognize his outline. “Hey,” she said, slurring a little. Just a little. “Hey you.”

  “Are...are you drunk?”

  “No,” she said, immediately and most vociferously. Then, “Maybe a little.”

  Dom clicked the light switch and Julie almost fell over trying to shield her eyes from the surge of invasive brightness. “What in the hell is going on?” he asked. “It's the middle of the night!”

  Julie took a couple steps and plowed face-first into the couch. It moved a little, but she managed to bury her eyes into the pillow at the end. Something sharp and uncomfortable was pushing into her stomach. She shoved a hand beneath her and came out with a little plastic figurine. Wasn't that Noah's Treasure Z or whatever? Treasure X. That was it. She flicked the figure away with no more concern for it now that she remembered the name.

  “Julie?” Dom asked. He was looming over her now.

  “Hmm?” Julie didn't raise her face. Part of it was the light.

  The other part...

  “Julie,” he said. “You're drunk.”

  What to say to that? “Okay, yes. But only a little.” She held up a hand, pinching her thumb and forefinger centimeters apart. “Tiny little bit.”

  “Why are you drunk?” God, he was just not going to let her sleep, was he? And she was soooo tired.

  Of that job.

  Of this day.

  Of questions.

  “Don't worry your pretty little head about it,” she said, giggling as she sat up, braving the light. She grabbed him by the belt – well, it should have been a belt, if he'd been clothed. She got the waistband of his tighty-whities instead. “C'mere, you.”

  “Uhhhh...uhmmm...” Dom said, but he did come there. He sat on the edge of the couch and Julie rolled to make room for him there. Didn't even have to rip his briefs down. “What is the matter with you?” he asked, and boy wasn't he just SO CONCERNED.

  Something in Julie snapped, and she let it out. Didn't even mean to. She'd meant to pull those undies down and...

  Instead, she said, “I got fired.” It just popped out.

  And then any desire to do anything sexy with keys and locks just disappeared as the wave of tears she'd been holding back rushed out, and she cried into the couch cushions, unable to even show her face to her husband.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sienna

  “If I spend any more time here I'm gonna need someone to make up the Lincoln Bedroom for me.” I yawned as I stepped out of Chalke's FBI SUV next to the West Wing of the White House.

  Chalke didn't say anything to my musing, but her jaw tightened. Clearly unimpressed with my rising starriness.

  Or jealous. It could have been jealousy.

  We were cleared through security in minutes, the Secret Service again seizing my cell phone but leaving me with my guns and knife. They did glance at Bilson's diary, and suddenly I was thankful I'd chosen a different security lane than Chalke. The guy who searched me handed it back with barely a look, once he was sure there was no bomb hidden in its pages.

  “Keep your briefing on point,” Chalke said as we made our way through the small, cramped corridors of the West Wing. “'We don't know anything yet. We're working on it, sir. We'll let you know as soon as we have answers.'”

  “That's all true,” I said.

  Chalke fired me a barely-restrained look that had at least fifty megatons of rage waiting beneath the surface. “Of course it's true. You don't think I'd ask you to lie to the president, do you?”

  “Not what I meant,” I said, “I was just suggesting that occasionally we might...soft-play things to allow for certain...uh...political questions to be...open-ended.”

  Chalke's eyes narrowed. “That doesn't make any literal sense, but I'm pretty sure I know what you're suggesting, and you'd be well advised to not think that. This is a deadly serious crime and we will find the answers to it, diplomatic consequences be damned. You understand?”

  It seemed clear: if China was continuing their bad behavior by assassinating Bilson at the moment of his ascendancy because he was a China-hawk convert, we'd report it and let the chips fall where they may. Which was an interesting shift of position for Chalke, and, by extension, I assumed, the Network. “Yes, ma'am,” was all I said, though, as we made it to the secretary's office and were shown straight through into the Oval Office.

  Every time I came in here, the relative smallness of the office struck me. It wasn't nearly as big or airy as it appeared in movies, and it seemed even more crowded tonight. Presiden
t Gondry was in the sitting area with a guest already across from him. I caught her in profile and recognized her immediately by the perfectly coiffed reddish-brown strands.

  “Agent Nealon,” the president said, rising to meet us. He shook Chalke's hand, then mine, in quick succession. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting the VP?”

  I turned to Vice President Sarah Barbour to find her looking at me with very calm and assessing eyes. “No, ma'am, I don't believe I've had the pleasure.” I took her hand quickly, as I did with everyone I didn't want to steal memories/the soul from, and kept eye contact. She was in a pantsuit with a navy jacket, and her shoes were on point, heels that walked the line between professional and stiletto in a way I didn't think I could ever pull off. She wore a tasteful gold chain around her neck, and her earrings matched it perfectly.

  “Agent Nealon,” VP Barbour said, keeping those probing eyes on me as long as possible. “I suspect our mutual reputations proceed us.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” I said, and she gestured for me to sit on the couch next to her. I did, and Chalke shuffled into place next to President Gondry's chair. It occurred to me in that moment that every meeting I'd been in with Gondry of late had been three women to his one, lone dude. Those were good numbers for the second bachelor president we'd had in a row, but I tried not to read anything into that.

  “So...they got Bilson,” Gondry said without any more preamble. “The bastards.”

  “Sir, it's a little premature to draw conclusions,” Chalke said, cool as steel.

  “Oh, I won't act on them, Director,” Gondry said, a little flare of anger shining through in his eyes, “but be assured I'm drawing conclusions. How can we not, with but a little reason at our disposal? This is simple cause and effect: we hit China with sanctions for their blatant kidnapping schemes this afternoon, and they take out my newly-appointed National Security Advisor. I mean, you couldn't draw a more perfect line. I stood there and credited the man with my turnaround on China policy and they went and crossed him off!”