All Fixed Up (14 page)

“I'm in,” I said at once. “When do you need me?”

“Yesterday,” he said.

Even better.
“I'll be there.”

“One other thing. Better put the phone where Billy can hear this, too.”

I leaned close to Billy and held the phone between our ears. “Go ahead.”

“There's been another murder. An adaptor.”

Billy and I looked at each other. The concern in his eyes mirrored what I felt. “Who?” I asked hoarsely, afraid to hear the answer.

“Jenny Harrison.”

Oh, God. Jenny was a friend of Mom's and Auntie Mo's. She was several years younger, and they had kind of adopted her because she had no immediate family of her own. Unless you counted … “Her cats,” I said inanely. “Who's taking care of her cats?”

“I don't know, Howdy. A neighbor, maybe?”

Billy's questions were more relevant. “Knife? Taser?” He spoke quietly, shielding his mouth with one hand so the cabbie wouldn't hear.

Somehow, I didn't want to know the answer. “She wasn't really friendly with her neighbors,” I mumbled.

“Throat slit. Taser marks were plain. The coroner found them on Pickering, too, hidden beneath his hair.”

I shut my eyes, but I couldn't get rid of the image. “She mostly kept to herself. Mom and Auntie Mo were trying to get her to go out more…” I told myself to stop babbling, but myself didn't seem to want to listen. In fact, Mom had suggested fixing her up with Mark. I'd shot down the idea at the time. Now I couldn't help wondering if I'd let Mom play matchmaker, and it had worked out, if Mark would have kept Jenny safe and she wouldn't be dead. (Yeah, I knew it was stupid even as I was thinking it, but the guilt fairies couldn't seem to resist the opportunity to lob more guilt balls at me.)

Billy swore softly, presumably about the Taser marks, and hugged me closer to him. “What do you need me to do, Mark?”

“Make sure Ciel gets to the company plane I have waiting for her at the airport. And then I guess you better check on the cats.”

 

Chapter 11

“Here you go, Dr. Carson. I'll leave you to get reacquainted with everyone's favorite facility. Remember, practice makes perfect!” said the man with a clipboard, cheap pen, and fabulous facial hair. Seriously. Elvis sideburns and a handlebar mustache. I'd say it worked for him, only … it didn't. On the other hand, it probably kept most people from noticing he had ears the size of a Ferengi's.

It was my second day in Houston place-holding for Dr. Phil while she and Misha waited out the manhunt at my tropical island hideaway. Billy hadn't been thrilled—at first—to take me to the airport instead of his bed, but he understood how jobs worked. He was called away unexpectedly often enough himself; he could hardly complain when I was. Besides, he was going to be busy enough helping Mark. And they both seemed happy enough to get me out of the city where all three murders had occurred.

Mom and Auntie Mo had divvied up Jenny's cats between the two households for the meantime. Molly had wanted to take them all, but Auntie Mo had put her foot down at three, leaving Mom to herd the other four. After the funeral, which was put on hold pending the murder investigation, they would work on finding them all good homes. (Ha! Good luck to Auntie Mo on ever getting their three away from Molly.)

I chuckled at my scheduler (he seem to expect it) and said, “Thanks. I know the drill.”

Except I really didn't. Dr. Phil may be space-potty trained, but I definitely wasn't. So when I closed the door behind him—and dead-bolted it—I started examining the equipment, and fast, because I had to pee. Urgently. (There was a regular toilet available, but if someone heard me flush it, they'd think Dr. Phil wasn't doing her duty. Er, so to speak. I had her reputation to maintain.) What was it James had said about “frequent urination”? That it was a symptom of—

No! Ciel Halligan, do not go there. You are wearing Dr. Phil's aura, and if you have to pee, it's because of her, not you. Think about your personal problems on your own time.

From the research I'd done before I'd taken the job to begin with, I knew there was a functional training toilet, and a “positional” one. I peeked at the one on the right. Inside the four-inch hole in the seat there was a video camera. It was hooked to a monitor in front of the toilet, so you could make sure the pertinent part of your anatomy was centered over the relatively small target before you released your figurative bombs. The idea was to get the feel of the right position before you practiced on the functional throne.

This kind of repetitive toilet training was essential, because once you're in space, using the real thing, accidents can get not only messy (imagine human waste floating around), but dangerous. You do not want to accidentally inhale or (
ew
) ingest any stray poop or pee floating around because you didn't hit your target.

I took a deep breath. Dropped Dr. Phil's drawers and took a seat. It was amazingly awkward to situate myself properly, but not nearly as embarrassing as turning on the monitor to the view of Dr. Phil's nether region. There are parts of this job I am never going to get used to. Snapping my eyes shut after the briefest peek possible, I memorized the feel of my position so I could duplicate it on the working trainer.

Satisfied I could do it, I shuffled over to the more intimidating functional replica. Buttons and switches and hoses …
gah.
Luckily, someone had taped easy, step-by-step instructions on the wall behind the space john. (
Or would that be a “John Glenn”?
I thought irreverently.)

First thing, you flipped the footholds down. Check. (There were straps to help hold your feet steady, and thigh restraints to keep you from floating away. Honestly, it looked like some futuristic version of a medieval birthing chair. Ugh.)

To urinate, one had to attach the proper funnel to the correct hose and turn on the fan. No gravity in space meant you had to use suction to control the flow of human waste to the containers where it was held for later recycling (liquid) or disposal (solid).

Trouble was, there were four different funnel types. How in the hell was I supposed to know which one to use? I supposed I could go back to the positional trainer and take a closer look at, um, things to get an idea of which one might be the best fit, but that seemed needlessly invasive of Dr. Phil's privacy, not to mention time-consuming. Like I said, I had to
go
. So I eenie-meenie-miney-moed it, and hoped for the best.

Phwoop!

Wow. Talk about a singular sensation. Even though my bladder felt like it was about to burst, I had a hard time getting started. (Go attach a funnel to your vacuum cleaner, press it close to your pertinent anatomy, and see if
you
can relax.) But eventually my need won out, and relief was had. Until I had to remove the funnel from its, um, docking station.

I tugged. It stuck.

Then I remembered—vaguely—that the funnels for the female astronauts were vented around the rims to avoid this kind of situation, because of the necessity of placing them directly against the body. The guys only had to aim into theirs from a few inches away (honestly, guys have it
so
much easier in the peeing department), so no vents were necessary for them—only a nice, strong suction to keep their fluids flowing where they needed to flow.

I'd obviously grabbed a guy funnel. (Damn it, I'd had to
pee
, all right? Urgently having to pee is not conducive to forethought.)

I tugged again.
Ouch.

There was a loud knocking on the door, followed by an eager “Dr. Carson? Everything all right in there? If you need assistance…”

Yikes.
“No! I'm fine.”

“Very well. I don't mean to rush you, but it looks like PR has scheduled you for another interview. This one is with a reporter from a local elementary school, and he's getting a little antsy. You know kids.”

“I'll be right there…” I said, doing my best to keep the desperation out of Dr. Phil's voice. One more good yank and—

Gah!
I bit my lip against a filthy word.

*   *   *

My interviewer was a big-eyed little boy with a blond buzz cut and more freckles than my primary aura, poor kid. He wrote painstakingly in his composition book with a blunt-pointed pencil, his tongue switching from one corner of his mouth to the other with each new letter he put down. He was in the second grade. But as excruciating as waiting for him to finish writing was, that wasn't my real problem.

My real problem was the videographer recording the interview for NASA's PR department.

A shiver had gone through me when I'd first seen him. He resembled Alec Loughlin in build and coloring, and was equally good-looking, if you go for that rugged, I've-lived-an-outdoor-life type. My handler introduced him as “John Smith.” Such a nice, ordinary name. My relief might have stayed with me past the introduction if, while shaking my hand, he hadn't stroked my palm with one finger and whispered, in a faint Russian accent, “Alec sends his regards.” That turned my initial shiver into a full-blown chill down my spine.

I tried to stay focused on the kid—Eddie, his name was—but my mind was flying. What was this guy doing here? Was there going to be another kidnapping attempt? Or maybe worse? Did he think I was Dr. Phil, or had Alec told him I was someone—some
thing
—else? How much did he know? How should I be acting around him?

Thus far I'd kept it to a pleasant but distant “pleased to meet you.” I didn't think Miss Manners had any set rules for greeting possible kidnappers-slash-murderers, so I was working blind.

I glanced at the camera, adopting a façade of magnanimous-adult-being-patient-with-the-kid. From the amused smirk on Smith's face, he wasn't buying it.

I turned to Eddie's teacher (Mr. Brooks, according to his name tag), an earnest older black man who obviously took his job as educator of tomorrow's scientists seriously. He'd made it a point to tell me the original journalist for today had been a girl who had called in sick to school, and the first alternate had also been a girl, but she too had been sick. I had applauded his efforts to encourage girls in the fields of science and technology, and assured him I was perfectly happy to talk to boys as well.

Now all I could think about was how to get both of them the heck out of here as soon as humanly possible. If this asshole was sent by Loughlin to get me, I didn't want any collateral damage.

“So,” I said to the teacher, “don't you think it might be a bit, well, redundant for Eddie to write down all my answers? I mean, since the interview is being recorded.”

Mr. Brooks smiled. “It never hurts to have a backup. What if the video is corrupted? Technology is far from infallible, you know.”

I suppressed an eye roll, Dr. Phil not being the eye-rolling type. “Yes, I do see your point. Perhaps if
I
wrote down my answers…” I suggested delicately.

“Oh, no,” Mr. Brooks said. “We like to foster independence in our students. Besides, this is good practice for Eddie. Dictation is rapidly becoming a lost skill for our youngsters.”

I nodded, keeping the patient smile on Dr. Phil's face, and decided to limit my future replies to three words or less. Three
short
words.

I darted another look at the Russian. His smirk seemed slier somehow. He knew he had me squirming, and was enjoying it.

Eddie looked up, eyebrows squinched together. “How do you spell ‘international' again?”

I was about to answer, but was stopped by a raised palm from the teacher. “Sound it out, Eddie.”

Eddie finally reached the end of his sentence—I-N-T-E-R-N-A-S-H-U-N-U-L … S-P-A-S … S-T-A-S-H-U-N; not a bad, if exceedingly time-consuming, effort—jabbing the period at the end of it like he was spiking a football after a touchdown.

“Next question?” I said, consciously not drumming my fingertips on the table between us. “Um, not to rush, but I do have another appointment soon.” A very personal appointment with my cell phone, to tell Mark that Loughlin definitely wasn't working alone.

Hmm.
Maybe I didn't have to wait. I could shoot off a quick text while little Eddie was laboriously laying lead down on the page. But as soon as I reached for my pocket, the videographer (whom, I somehow suspected, was
not
named John Smith) started talking, his Russian accent not as subtle as before.

“Patience, Dr. Carson. Put yourself in the boy's place. That would be much better than putting him in your place, wouldn't it?”

I forced myself to keep my focus on my interviewer, terribly afraid I couldn't hide my shock at what he seemed to be threatening. Would he really harm a child?

Eddie put his pencil down and flexed his hand, grimacing.

I feel you, kid.

“Go ahead, Eddie,” Mr. Brooks said with an encouraging smile, looking like he had all the time in the world. Not that I could blame him for stretching things out. This was probably way more fun than dealing with a whole classroom full of seven-year-olds.

Eddie looked at the next question on his list, a mischievous grin appearing on his face. “How do you use the bathroom in space?” He snickered.

Great. How could I explain
that
in three words?

“Keep it serious, Edward,” Mr. Brooks said sternly.

“Hey, you told me a good journalist asks the questions other people want to know. Well, that's what Sam wants to know.” He shrugged.

Under less tense circumstances I probably would have had trouble maintaining Dr. Phil's decorum. As it was, I only smiled, keeping her professional attitude intact. “We have a special toilet. It sucks the”—would he understand “urine” and “feces”?—“pee and poop into special containers, kind of like a vacuum cleaner.”