CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER by B. A. Linhares

 

Josh is gone about ten minuets when there’s a big boom loud enough to make the dishes rattle in the kitchen cabinets. Pop drops his fork on the floor and we both stand up abruptly.

He looks at me. “What in God’s name was that?”

I blink and click off the possibilities in my head: a car back firing, a sonic boom, gunfire? Sonic booms are rare for Washington, DC. When it does happen, it’s usually fighter jets scrambling to defer an airplane that has strayed into the no-fly zone over the White House.

Pop retrieves his fork and we hear a second loud boom. This time it reminds me of when our old water heater exploded and blew out the basement window. Fire investigators determined that the water heater was made before pressure release valves were required. For some reason the pressure built up and caused the explosion. I get up and dash across the kitchen floor. I push open the wooden basement door and look down the dark passage. Glancing around I feel around for the light switch.

Pop asks, “What are you doing?”

“Seeing if the water heater blew again,” I holler over my shoulder as I maneuver the cement steps. Everything looks normal. I run back up, kill the light and shut the door.

Pop is standing at the sink washing his fork off. “Well?” He doesn’t look worried.

I shake my head. “Nothing. What do you think exploded?” I ask peering out the window at the backyard.

“Maybe a fire hydrant blew open. Let’s check out front.”

I follow Pop as he pushes through the kitchen door.

All of a sudden, the front door rattles on its hinges and I jump about a foot off the floor. My hand clings to Pop's shoulder to catch my balance. We move down the hallway. It sounds like two gorillas are wresting on the front porch. I swear I can hear grunting.

Pop mutters, “What the bloody hell?” He does a u-turn and goes back into the kitchen. He turns this way and that.

I stick with him and whisper, “Is somebody trying to break in?”

He snatches up a butcher knife out of the rack, and storms past me, bound for the front door. “They’ll have to get by me!”

“Pop!” I’m right on his heels, clutching his shirt with both hands.

Halfway there, he holds up his left hand and we pause next to the bottom of the stairs. I let go of his shirt, back up a few feet, and enter the living room franticly searching the room for a weapon. I snatch up the fireplace poker and hold it like a baseball bat. The phone on the table in the hallway starts ringing. I take a step toward the foyer. My eyes feel like they are going to pop out of their sockets.

 “Stay put,” Pop hisses and I freeze. He is halfway up the stairs with his back pressed against the wall. He starts creeping toward the front door, his arm extended and butcher knife out front.

The phone keeps ringing.

Another loud ka-BOOM goes off. This time it sounds like a shootout in a western movie.

I scream, drop the poker and dive under the coffee table. The home and car security alarms around the neighborhood are going off like air raid sirens during World War 2.

After a second or two, I inch to the end of the couch and see Pop slumped against the wall gripping his chest. “Pop!”

“Stay where you are Missy!”

“Oh God…are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, breathlessly and points the knife in my direction. “Stay put. I’m going to look out the peep hole.”

I belly crawl to the other end of the couch and watch him go to the coat closet. He rips open the door and takes out a wooden baseball bat. He peers out the little peephole and then pushes the door shut with his hip.

“I can’t see anything.”

I shriek, “Pop don’t go out there!”

Pop props the bat on his shoulder and somehow yanks the front door wide open with the hand holding the big butcher knife.

I’m on the floor glued to the rug by the fireplace, my hands over my ears. The phone call finally goes to the answering machine. I hear a muffled voice speaking on the other end. I drop my hands and picture my father lying on the ground bleeding. There are loud men shouting. I’m afraid to look. Then I hear Pop curse and I blow out a breath and rise up on all fours so I can see around the wall. Pop’s body pretty much fills the doorway so I can’t see what’s going on outside.

The phone starts ringing again.

Pop punches in the code on the security pad and at least stops our ringing alarm. Then he hollers, “Hey you two, what in the bloody blazes is going on out here?”

A deep male voice yells, “Stay where you are sir!”

“First tell me what the hell you are doing to that poor lad?” Pop yells back, looking and sounding like a crazy person,

I let out a few more pent up breaths as I rise up on my feet and tiptoe over to the door.

Pop glances over his shoulder at me, face flushed, eyes bulging out of his head like two large green marbles. “I told you to stay put Missy!”

I hear sirens in the near distance. “Who is it?” I whisper and put my hands on Pop’s big shoulders. I stand on my tiptoes and catch glimpses of the scene on the front yard by making little leaps in the air. I gasp. From my perspective, it looks like Josh O'Dell sprawled belly down in the middle of our front yard. A muscular blond man dressed in all black is holding a big gun to the back of his head. In contrast to his dark clothing, his flaxen hair and white teeth practically glow in the dark. The man’s face is intense. My eyes adjust to the lighting and I see that he’s wearing an earpiece and a shoulder holster over his black turtleneck.

Josh lifts his head a little then put it back down on the grass.

The man in black shifts his weight. “Don’t fight me!”

I whisper, “What the hell?” I jump a little bit higher and catch a quick look of the Space Bag lying on the driveway like a large jelly fish washed ashore. All the commotion brought the neighbors out of their homes now they’re gathering in front of our house.

Our phone on the hall table is ringing, yet again. I backup, unable to take my eyes off the front entrance, and pick up the receiver. “Hello?” I walk back up to the front door the handset pressed to my ear.

“This is A-One Security, is everything okay Miss. Blakely?”

“Uh, I don’t know…” I tap Pop on the back. “Pop it’s the security company.”

 “Tell them we have a crazy man with a gun on our front lawn,” Pop yells and waves the knife and bat.

The man in black shouts, “Calm down sir and drop your weapons!”

“Pop what should I tell the security company?” I pat him on the shoulder, but he’s too busy yelling at the FBI guy and waving the knife in the air for emphasis. Waiting for instructions, I bob and weave, avoiding an elbow punch, and then wrestle the baseball bat from Pop and lean it in a corner.

He twists around. “Hey Missy, give that back!”

The guy on Josh reaches behind and comes back with a folded wallet in his hand. He flips it open and holds it toward us, all the while pointing the gun at Josh... A gold badge glints in what little light there is. “I’m Special Agent Ivan Brody,” he shouts, “with the FBI”

I look with mounting trepidation at the clump of curious neighbors gathered on the sidewalk under the streetlight gawking at us with alarmed expressions. Then I realize that the security guy is talking in my ear. “Miss we have dispatched an armed patrolman to your location.”

“Thanks.” I click off and rise up on my toes again trying to see around Pop. I feel my eyes squint at the FBI man on top of Josh Oh my gosh! what on earth did Josh do? Then it dawns on me that this guy might be connected to the strange white van Josh was checking on his way out. I watch enough TV to understand why FBI surveillance vehicles are used. Why here? Does this guy have anything to do with Agent Werthoust and our little chat on my birthday? Maybe they already know about Valentine.

“Sir, can you identify yourself as one...Christopher A. Blakely?” Agent Brody asks, returning his wallet to his coat pocket.

 “Well, of course I can! This is my bloody house and I’m standing my ground!”

I step back a few feet while Pop gesticulates with the butcher knife and bellows at the FBI agent––he looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy run amok––of course minus his apron and chef hat. 

Special Agent Brody shouts, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to please calm down so I can explain.” Brody pauses and cocks his head to the side, craning trying to see around Pop. “Sir, is there someone behind you?

I hold up my free hand, and do a little wave over Pop’s shoulder.

A police car blares down our street and comes to a screeching halt in front of our house. The siren dies but the light bar on the roof keeps flashing like a fair ride. A male officer gets on the loud speaker, speaking slowly and precisely. He tells the us to drop our weapons.

Agent Brody holds his gun muzzle skyward as he takes a step back, grips the cylinder with his left hand, slides it back and forth, and dumps the magazine on the grass. Then tosses the gun across the lawn. It lands under a shrub. Meanwhile, Josh remains sprawled face down on the grass.

The cruiser driver’s door pops open and a lone officer steps out slowly arm extended, gun leading the way. He shuts the door, then moves with measured steps toward Josh and the FBI agent. The officer revolves to his left and barks, “Okay! I need everyone on the sidewalk to go back inside your homes.” He takes a few cautious steps, moving across the sidewalk along the length of our street. The neighbors back up but don’t leave. Agent Brody explains himself, and then shows his FBI creds to the officer and the officer nods in response. His gaze moves toward Pop and me. I feel like I’m in a B-movie scene. None of this feels real.

The officers shouts, “You there in the doorway! Drop your weapons and kick them into the bushes to your right. Then step slowly out on the porch toward me with your hands up over your heads.”

I’m still grasping the receiver in my right hand. Bending down, I set the handset on the floor inside the front door. I glace upward. Pop still has a death grip on the knife. “Pop, just do as he says,” I hiss, and put my hand up to take the knife.

The officer shouts, “Move toward me NOW!”

Startled, I drop my hand and Pop makes a low animal growls as we move our little conga line out the door. Once we’re out on the porch, I step to the left. Pop drops the knife and kicks it over the ledge into the bushes, then raise both of his hands up palms out.

“You too miss. Empty your hands and pockets.”

“I don’t have anything else,” I call out and think, seriously, no weapon would fit in the pockets of my tight skinny jeans.

Two more cruisers roar down the street and stop behind the first cruiser. Four policemen and two policewomen arrive on the scene weapons drawn. “What’s the story?”

The first uniformed officer shouts, “Pretty sure we have a domestic situation here. Not sure why the Feds are involved.” Then he assumes the same position Agent Brody had and pats Josh down. Josh lets out a loud moan and I picture a pool of blood on the lawn underneath him. I recall all of the gunshots we heard and I start to run over.

“Halt!” The officers shout and they all have their guns pointed at me.

I jerk back, raising my hands up high, swaying a little to catch my balance. I don’t know what came over me. I blink back tears and stare down at Josh. “Josh, are you shot?”

The first officer tells me, “Remain on the porch Miss until I say otherwise.”

“Sorry officer, but what if he’s hurt. Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?”

Josh looks at me. “I’m okay Cookie.”

I nod. Thank God, he’s okay. However, I’m sure he’s not too happy about being sprawled out in the wet grass for so long with a knee between his shoulders.

Looking perplexed, the other police officers lower their guns muzzle and attempt to sum up the scene. The officer on top of Josh rises up and he looks a Pop and me. “Okay, that’s better. Now, both of you move toward me slowly and keep your hands in the air where I can see them.”

As we inch closer, Josh rolls his eyes upward and smiles wryly at me. I mouth to him, “Sorry.” Somehow, I feel like this is all my fault. I just don’t know why. Then it dawns on me that once we’re able to look back on it this will be a funny story. I bite my lip to stifle a giggle. Just wait until this cop finds out that Josh is Wayne O’Dell’s son.

“Christopher Blakely?” A familiar man’s voice shouts from the sidewalk, It’s Mr. Dobbs and he’s surrounded by Neighborhood Watch members. “What in tarnation is going on at your place this time?” Before Pop can answer, Dobbs continues, “As OLLA president—” His wife cuts him off by yanking on his sleeve and they exchange dirty looks.

She says something to him and they go back and forth as if discussing what to say next. The two of them take a cautious step forward and stops on the edge of our yard. His wife is still clinging to his shirtsleeve like a timid child.

Mr. Dobbs is the newly elected President of the Oak Lawn Lane Association (OLLA). Pop started the because the news of Mom’s death turned our neighborhood into a freak magnet and a stop for sightseers. Dobbs actually volunteered for the position. He tells everybody he wanted to be a politician, but he said his wife threatened to kill him if he ran for office. Pop says Dobbs takes his position way too seriously.

The old codger, from two streets over, yells, “What is this crap? I thought our little neighborhood had quieted down! Tell us what’s going on. I’m missing my TV show!”

The police officers holster their guns, and then the first officer who arrived on the scene addresses the crowd in a bored tone, “Everyone please go back inside your homes.”

Nobody leaves. It’s as if they’re glued to the pavement.

Two of the officers shake their heads and ambles down the walkway to talk to the suborn crowd. The officer standing by Josh, joins Agent Brody and after they talk for a few minuet, they stare at each other I guess trying to figure out who has jurisdiction. Then they come over and stand in front of Pop and me. It appears the FBI agent won the toss.

I smile tightly. “Um, may we lower our hands now? My arms are starting to ache. I promise we aren’t going to do anything rash.”

The officer says, “Yes.”

Agent Brody asks Pop, “Sir, do you have identification on your person?”

Pop bellows, “Aye, my wallet is in my back pocket!” His hands still in the air, Pop cocks his head at me. “This is my daughter Cookie Blakely. You hurt a hair on her head and I––” Pop catches himself. He knows it’s not a good idea to threaten a Federal agent and an officer of the law.  He takes out his wallet, removes his driver’s license and hands it over to Agent Brody.  Agent Brody shows it to the officer, and then gives it back to Pop. Pop jams it back in his back pocket and props his hands on his hips, rising up on his toes looking smug.

“So you two know this young man?” Agent Brody asks us, gesturing with his head at Josh.

“Aye, you’ve got one Joshua O’Dell there,” Pop answers in all seriousness. “You two may be interested to know that this boy’s father is Wayne O’Dell, an officer of the law with the Washington, MPD.”

The other officers join us and curse as recognition registers on their faces. The group twists around and looks down at Josh. Josh curls his eyes up at them and smiles affably.

Agent Brody playfully backhands the first officer in the arm and says, “In the future you might want to check with the security company before you go about abusing your colleagues’ kin folk.”

Spitting bits of turf from his lips, Josh pushes up with his hands and turns his head to look up at Agent Brody. He says, “Agent Brody, I think I met you when I was little. You came over to our house to work out with my dad in our gym. I recognized your tattoo.”

The FBI agent turns down the corners of his mouth and looks at the small tattoo on his right hand. “Oh yeah. Well, I guess I didn’t recognize you now that you’re all grown up.”  

“Uh,” Josh says, sitting back on his heels. “Now that you know that I’m not a robber or a kidnapper, may I get up?”

Agent Brody immediately steps back and offers his hand to Josh. Josh ignores the gesture, jumps to his feet. Brody brushes at Josh’s back and then squeezes his upper arm. “Damn, Josh, you been lifting? I remember you always wanted to work for the force.”

Josh says, “A little. I’m interning in forensics evidentiary digital images at my Dad’s precinct here in Georgetown.”

The police officer standing closest to Josh, probably the oldest one here, says sounding ashamed, “Sorry about that son. Wayne is going to have our heads.”

Josh smiles. “Nah, when he hears about it, he’ll think it’s funny.”

I’m completely impressed that Josh didn’t freak out one bit during this. He knew just what to do and say. I would have passed out from fright by now.

Agent Brody offers his hand. “No hard feelings?” This time Josh takes it, then punches the agent in the arm, really hard. I feel my jaw drop thinking has Josh lost his mind, striking a FBI Agent. “Damn, that hurt O’Dell.” Agent Brody stumbles a little and just laughs while rubbing his arm. “You’re gonna do just fine when you get on the force.” Then he presses a finger to his earpiece and drops his head listening. He says in a low voice, “This is Cookie Man.”

I overhear him say “Cookie” and find myself leaning and straining to hear more. So does Josh. He looks at me and then slides his eyes to Agent Brody.

Agent Brody pauses and looks at us listening to him while listening to whoever is on the other end. Brody raises his voice, “Come in Chocolate Chip!” Pausing to get a response from the other end. He raises an eyebrow and stars over my right shoulder. “Hey! Are you idiots in the van or not?” Then he listens and bobs his head. “Yeah...of course this is the Cookie Man, you dork! Who else would it be?”

Josh frowns and drops his eyes to the ground. Is he waiting at the airport?

“Shut up and listen to me!” Agent Brody hisses, “We have a broken cookie jar, I repeat...we have a broken cookie jar. Yes, you numbskull read the instruction manual…it means mission aborted! The suspect has been identified as one Joshua O’Dell...roger that.

Suspect? They must be here looking for Valentine, I mean Fredrik Koshechka, the former KGB agent following me around Georgetown.

“Yes, I know who his father is... shut the ...No, I don’t need your help...bite me Simpson… Over and out!”

Josh goes over to talk to the group of lawmen standing in the middle of our lawn. I turn my attention to the growing crowd on the sidewalk and watch as a news van stops nearby them. The van’s driver shouts through the open passenger side window, “Hey! What’s going on at the Blakely house this time?”

 A guy on a black racing bike, wearing a dark hoodie sweatshirt, rolls up to the window. He tells the reporter loudly, “Somebody tried to break in to the Blakely home!” He holds up his cell phone. “I got a picture of the suspect walking around their side yard.”
He must be working with the cheesy newspaper! This pisses me off and I walk over, shouting, “Hey you on the bike! Nobody tried to break into our house!” The bicyclist ignores me and keeps talking to the news van driver. I wave my arms.“Listen to me! It was a big misunderstanding! Nothing happened. Everyone pleasego away!” I plant my feet beside the guy on the bike and stare at him, but he refuses to look my way and his hoodie hides his face. It takes everything in me to resist tackling him.

“Enough already!” Pop shouts, as he makes his way over to the road to confront the news people. “Everybody please go home!” His face is beet red and he looks like he’s going to blow a gasket.

“Anyway, the pretty red-head is Cookie Blakely, the daughter and her husband Christopher Blakely, is the big scary dude coming this way,” the guy on the bike tells the news van driver, and then takes off when he see Pop approaching him.

 

A slender woman in a cream-colored pantsuit emerges from the other side news van and starts pumping the crowd for information. She’s scribbling whatever in a small notebook. Great a roving reporter is on the scene. What next television cameras? The neighbors ignore our requests and gather around us talking at once. Meanwhile I just stand there like a deer in headlights. “Nothing happened. It was all a big mistake!” Pop tells them repeatedly.

The female reporter taps Pop on the shoulder and he turns around. She extends her hand, “Hi Mr. Blakely, I’m Jill Jamison with News Talk, may I ask you a few questions?”

Pop asks, “No, I don’t talk to reporters. How did you find out about this?”

She answers, “It’s no mystery, and we’re tapped into the police radio channel.” She waves her hand. “So, what is this? Is it true someone tried to break into your home? Where were you and Cookie when this went down?”

“News Talk can’t just make up stories that are false and full of holes!” Pop shouts. He shakes his fist as he walks away from Jill Jamison.

 “Mr. Blakely, I––” The lady reporter shrugs and then looks around for prey.

Feeling claustrophobic and overwhelmed, I back into the shadows of a tree, and then go over and lean against Josh’s car. I hear incoherent mumbling and see Dixie Rodriguez toddling down the dimly lit sidewalk with a flashlight in one hand, dragging her yipping Chihuahua Hernando on a leach. Panting from the excitement and exercise, she stops under the streetlight next to our driveway, and narrows her big dark eyes at the crowd. She apparently doesn’t see me just a few feet away. Sorry, but Dixie looks like a football player in drag. She takes a few more causes steps, pointing the flashlight in Pop’s direction. “Is that jou Senior Blakely?”

Pop looks over and raises his voice, “It’s nothing Mrs. Rodriguez, go back inside!” He’s talking to the neighbors. I wish everyone would go away.

“Have jou got a prowler or somethin’?” She asks in her heavy Hispanic accent. Dixie watches as a few new people come down the street push by her and join the crowd. “Waz happenin’ Christopher?” She wags a plump finger.

“Que?” she calls, slogging in her slide on sandals down the sloping cracked cement––an accident waiting to happen. She stops and smiles brightly up at the news van as if posing for a picture. Dixie looks both ways then steps into the street and heads for the lady reporter. In response, the little rat-dog barks and does a doggie tap dance digging his hind legs in. “Come puppy,” she tells Hernando sweetly, “Mommy might be in the news.” He refuses so she stoops over picks him up and tucks him in the crook of her arm. Hernando looks up nervously at Dixie with lidless glassy eyes that resemble two large black olives.

Everyone watches silently as Dixie scurries across the street, her breasts swing like pendulums under the flowery orange and hot pink muumuu. She pauses at the curb then steps gingerly on the sidewalk. Her pink framed bi-focal glasses are on top of her head under the pile of artificial blonde curls. Bending over at the waist, Dixie set Little Hernando down on the sidewalk and holds onto his leash. Hernando yaps and runs in circles, wrapping his leash around Dixie’s swollen ankles. Eventually he runs out of leash and starts making gasping sounds. Dixie squints at us and then slides on her glasses.

It looks like the media circus is starting all over again.

the lady reporter dash over to one of the police officers as they go to the cruisers, turn off the flashing lights, and shut the doors. The reporter tags along in full reporter mode. Dixie runs after her as they stroll down the sidewalk. The officer is asking the neighbors to go home for the hundredth time. Hernando bares his teeth and growls at them and they both rear back.

Josh walks over with Agent Brody and sees me leaning on his car. He comes over and the FBI agent shouts. “Just a little misunderstanding folks. Everyone…please…go home!”

“Good luck with that,” I whisper under my breath. Josh just shakes his head. Then we share a look as a gang of carousing teenagers on Vespas roll by the scene slowly, and then move on, probably on the way Montrose Park next to the Oak Hill cemetery, a block down from our street. It’s turning into a biker hangout. And for several reasons, the community is not happy that they’re there, I think.

Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs come over smiling at the reporter as if she needs rescuing from Dixie. Mr. Dobbs moves in front of Dixie and says slowly, “Dixie, the nice policemen asked us to go inside.”

“Harump, jou’re not the boss of me!” She pats her amble bosoms. “Santa Maria! Who died?”

“No Dixie,” Mr. Dobbs says slowly as if speaking to a moron. “Nobody died. I said go inside.”

Then Mrs. Dobbs raises her voice because everyone knows that Dixie wears a hearing aid that she rarely turns it on. “I think you should take their advice. It’s not safe––”

Dixie puts her hands on her ample hips, “Jous don’t have to jell! I’m not without the hearing aid.” She takes a step away and points at her ear with a glossy red fingernail.

I drop my gaze to the leash wrapped around her ankle and the large tree root that has pushed up a chunk of broken cement. Dixie is about to trip over it. I push off the car and hold out my hands. “Mrs. Rodriguez!” I shout, “Watch your—”

Before I can get out the warning, Dixie trips and goes down dragging poor little Hernando with. Thankfully, she lands on our thick lawn. She lays there cursing in her native tongue, kicking at the leash causing little Hernando to choke. Mrs. Dobbs drops down to help her remove the leash.

A policeman runs over with a first aid box and says, “Don’t move her! I’ll call 9-1-1 she may have broken her hip.”

Josh says, “He’s right, don’t move her, you don’t want a lawsuit do you?”

Meanwhile, a photographer snaps pictures and Jill Jamison says gleefully, “Now I have a story!”

The photographer backs up and says loud enough for me to hear, “Maybe we should call in Greenpeace instead of 911.” Sprawled out on the lawn Poor Dixie looks little like a beach whale.

Dixie insists she’s fine and Mrs. Dobbs holds the yapping pup under her arm and tugs down Dixie’s muumuu while the men try to pull her feet.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Pop says, extending his hand to Agent Brody and they shake. “I have to check on my dinner.”

“That’s fine Mr. Blakely, although I will need to talk to you further.”

Pop looks at me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

I think, screw dinner! I want to stick around and find out what the heck happened to Josh. Pop raises his hand in a wave, and then goes inside, shutting the front door behind him. I keep an eye on the scene and sneak over to retrieve the Space Bag with Mom’s blanket. During the Dixie debacle, I noticed it was lying next to Josh’s driver side door. I quietly open Josh’s car door, which is thankfully not locked, and slide it under the driver’s seat. I rise up and peer through his back window. At this point, the men are all standing in a tight circle talking. I’m pretty sure Josh sees me doing this, but I can’t be sure. He and Agent Brody are in an pretty intense discussion. I worm my way back and stand next to Josh—nobody even missed me. I wonder what I missed.

A good amount of the people standing around our yard, decide that the show is over and disburse. The reporter and the youngest and (in my opinion) cutest officer and are leaning on a cruiser chatting as if they know each other. Hum, again.

I turn my attention back to the circle of men and take a moment to size up FBI Agent Ivan Brody. He has Brad Pit-ish looks: rugged face, intense blue eyes, perfectly combed short blonde hair. Either he’s married or has a girlfriend because he’s way too handsome to be single. He has to be at least thirty-five—way too old for me. So, who is he really, and why is he here? Moreover, why did he apprehend Josh?

Agent Brody motions at Josh. “So, you sure you’re okay?”

Josh smiles sheepishly. “I’m fine.” He pauses. “I didn’t hurt you earlier when I—”

“What…?” Agent Brody one-two punches Josh in the chest. Boys will be boys. “When you Kungfued me in the groin? Na…I’m cupped.”

Ewe! TMI!

Agent Brody puts his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Hey, man, I’ll teach you Systema.”

“That would be awesome.”

Syswhata?

Agent Brody holds up his arm consults his watch, and in turn reminds Josh that they need to pick up Wayne at the airport. I totally forgot. “Give me a minute. I need to check on something,” Agent Brody tells Josh, as he pulls the little walky-talky off his belt and backs away a few feet from us, holding the little black box up to his mouth and begins talking in a low voice.

Josh looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Hey. Wow, what a night!” He consults his watch and takes a step toward his card. “I’m sorry Cookie, but––”

I stand in front of Josh blocking his path. “Josh you have to tell me what’s going on!”

Josh throws up his arms. “Don’t you understand? I’m dead meat! I have to call home.” He flips open his cell phone, punches speed dial and starts pacing around in the yard. I can hear his dad yelling on the other end. Josh says, “Dad…Dad…listen! I can explain! Dad…” Josh listens and says. “I know….it’s NOT my fault!” He glances at me, as he strolls by chewing on his lower lip. “I’m still at the Blakely’s. Dad, listen, you won’t believe who I literally ran into...Agent Ivan Brody!”

Agent Brody comes back over. His eyes shift from Josh to me as he clips the walky-talky back on his belt. Standing legs spread apart, he folds his arms over his broad chest. I want to ask him what’s going on but I figure he will tell me eventually.

“I’m on my way Dad. Yes sir, I’ll remind him.” Josh clicks off and shrugs his shoulders as if working out a kink. He clicks off his cell and points a finger at Agent Brody, mouthing you owe me!

I look at Josh. “Everything okay?”

“He took a cab from the airport. But he told me to get my butt home.”

Agent Brody says, “Sounds like you better get Josh.” His gaze slides from Josh to me. Then back to Josh. “Sorry if I messed up your night.”

“Like I said, you owe me Ivan,” Josh says, and glances sideways at me. “You can pay me back by answering some questions I need to run by you. It concerns something real important that Cookie and I are working on.”

Agent Brody reaches in his pocket and hands Josh his card. “Call me on my cell later and we can figure something out.”

“Thanks.” Josh takes the card and tucks it in his wallet. Anyway, Dad said come on over if you can, Mom has diner on the table.”

Agent Brody smiles. “Very tempting. I’d accept, but I need to talk to these nice folks.” He cocks his head in my direction and I’m about to invite him in for dinner and Pop comes back outside with his white KISS THE KOOK apron on. He props his fisted hands on his hips and locks his eyes onto Josh and Agent Brody. “Would you two lasses mind telling me what the hell was going in the middle of my front yard or are you gonna keep reminiscing as if nothing ever happened?”

Agent Brody ask, “Mind if we go inside?”

“Catch ya later Mr. B, I have to go home and face the music sort of speak.”

Pop shakes Josh’s extended hand. “Come over anytime Josh.” Pop looks at Agent Brody and gestures with his hand. “Hungry?” Pop asks, and they head to the house.

I follow Josh over to his car. I horrible feeling runs though my heart like a bad omen.

Josh says, “Well, see you tomorrow at school Cookie.” He opens the door and starts to climb behind the wheel.

I touch his back and say in a low voice, “Josh, wait a second. Is there any way you can stick around for a while? I’m afraid something is going to happen to you.”

He swings around and wraps his arms around me in a warm hug. I can feel the warmth of his hands through my top’s thin material, it feels wonderful.

“Hey, don’t be afraid,” he says, patting my back. “It was just a case of mistaken identity…I walked around your yard, hiding in the shadows and Brody’s henchmen fired a few warning shots at me. We’ll work this out. Don’t worry. Agent Brody has to help us now.”

I nod and then whisper in Josh’s ear, “I hope so.” I pull back and look at him. “Did you see that I put the Space Bag under your driver’s seat?”

Josh drops his arms, glances at the back seat and then back to me. “Yes, I saw you do that. I’ll let you know what my dad says too, that is if he doesn’t toss me into the Potomac for forgetting about him.”

My face feels hot from the closeness and anticipation has me on pin and needles. I look over Josh’s shoulder glad we’re finally alone. I laugh cynically. “I can’t wait to hear what Agent Brody has to say.”

“Me too. Promise you’ll call me later if you get a chance,” Josh says, sliding behind the wheel. I nod and he shuts the door, and fires up the engine. I stand in the grass by the driveway watching Josh. I pull down my shirt and step away from his car. Josh puts down the window. “Hey, feel free to ask Agent Brody if he knows what’s going on with your Mom’s case.”

“As if he’ll even tell to me anything.”

“He might.” I backup and look down at my feet. Josh stop halfway in the street. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head and shrug. “I don’t know, I guess after what happened to you. I’m having second thoughts…”

“Cookie, we need all the help we can get. Bye, I’ll call you later.” He looks at me through the window, winks, and then backs out into the street and rolls to the intersection.

I wave. Then smile thinking, wow, what a night. I can’t wait to talk to Agent Brody’s and hear his side of the story.