CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

Josh opens the front door and I go out. I can’t set the alarm so I lock up behind me using my house key to set the deadbolt. I step off the porch and breathe in deeply. The air smells sweet and a little breeze ruffles my hair. We cross to the driveway and I grasp reality. I say, “It’s almost September.”

“Labor Day weekend vacation is right around the corner. Surf City, here I come!”

Josh takes out his car keys. “Sounds like fun.”

 “Yeah, I just hope our trip isn’t somehow screwed up by everything going on right now.”

We pause next to my Mustang and look up at the sky. I live in Georgetown, but Pop and I usually avoid the DC crazies because we can’t stand the traffic and the way they drive. On the other hand, it might be fun driving around the capitol in my convertible Mustang with Josh.

Josh turns toward his car and I say, “Wait. You checked and the storm is over?”

Josh looks up and around the yard. “Yes completely. An upper level cold front pushed the clouds southeast.” Leave it to Josh to have a scientific weather report ready.

“Cool. So, lets take my Mustang…we can put the top down.”

“Okay. I’ll park my car on the street,” Josh says, and skirts between our cars. He fires up his engine and park under the streetlight a little ways down. It’s the closest available space.

I unlock both doors and toss our stuff in the backseat behind the driver’s seat. Josh returns and helps me unlatch the convertible top and fold it back. We snap down the cover then get in; I slide behind the wheel and buckle up. Josh drops into the passenger side and bumps his knee on something.

“Ouch!” Josh rubs his knee.

I stick the key in the ignition, look over, and see that the glove compartment is open and a bunch of papers fell out. I turn sideways. “Sorry, did you hurt yourself?”

“Nah, just a stinger,” he says, and bends over to picks up my insurance card and registration then the packet from Earl’s Family Garage. Inside is the receipt for the repairs done on the Mustang? He slides everything back into the glove box and I notice something shiny by his foot.

I point. “Wait...there’s something stuck in the floor mat by your right foot.”

He picks it up. “It’s a bumper sticker.”

“Let me see that.” I hold out my hand and he gives it to me.

LEASEME@ERNIE’SFINERENTALCARS.COM

I suck in a sharp breath.

Josh studies my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Where did this come from?” I whisper out loud staring at the shiny gold letters on the bumper sticker.

 “I guess it was in the packet,” Josh says, and takes the bumper sticker from me. “The Zavalla family passes them out hoping you’ll stick them on your bumper. We take our cars there for whatever. I know JR from Boy Scouts when we were kids and we stayed friends…”

I turn sideways and look at Josh. “My stalker rented a car from them.”

“They added a rental office last year,” Josh says, flipping the bumper sticker over. The back is blank “So, about a month ago, my dad took me with him on an 11-54 call to Ernie’s Rentals. It was wild—they had a swat team crawling all over the joint.”

I nod and listen to Josh. I try to figure out all the puzzle pieces that are Valentine. I’m sort of stalling in hopes that Pop or Agent Brody show up before we leave. I’d like some questions I have about our broken security system and the door being open answered.

“What’s an 11-54 call?”

“The code means “suspicious vehicle” they were checking out a car seen at a crime scene or something like that. I think Dad said it was an International investigation and very high profile. I can’t remember all the details, but somebody said the suspect was from Moscow or London; he was seen in both places. That night, the FBI was on the tail of a Russia art dealer who’d rented a car from Ernie Zavalla’s company. After the Russian guy sold some original paintings to a local art dealer and paid him, like, fifty grand up front,” Josh says, and slides the bumper sticker in the glove compartment, shuts the flap securely. “The man claimed he never received his art purchase. Then a couple of days later, Ernie find the man dead in the trunk of the rental car. The very car Dad was there checking out.”

While Josh tells me this, several cars drive down our street. In the corner of my eye, I see the black car with my bodyguards inside. I expect they’ll be accompanying us to the Library of Congress.

I blink in the darkness at Josh. “Wow, do you go on investigations with your dad often?”

“Not really. Mom wouldn’t let me. However now that I’m older and plan to join the force, I want to go as much as possible.” Josh stares out the windshield a moment. Then he looks freaked. He shakes his head.

I touch his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I was just trying to remember everything that happened that night. It was late and I was tired. But, you know what? Now that I think about it, Ernie Zavalla described the Russian dude as having a white beard like Santa Claus and a small red birthmark under his eyebrow.” Josh's hand goes to his own eyebrow. “Ernie said he always wore a black hat and an overcoat.”

I shove Josh’s shoulder. “You’re kidding!”

Josh holds up his hands. “I swear. That’s exactly what Mr. Zavalla said.”

I feel my mouth drop open. “Whoa, that sounds just like my stalker. What if my guy is Fredrik Koshechka? The KGB agent in Mr. J’s book. He’s Russian. This is too weird.”

Josh shifts sideways and looks at me, his eyes wide with interest. “It would be interesting if the man you’re seeing around town wearing the black overcoat is also the Russian art merchant…”

“Yeah,” I say, softly. “They sound like one and the same.”

“A master of disguise,” Josh mutters reciting what the book said about Fredrik Koshechka. Then he asks, “So you’re pretty sure you first saw this guy in Austria—what about nine years ago?”

“Yes...maybe...I don’t know...I think so…” I shake my head feeling frustrated. “I mean it was a long time ago…”

“Plus you were only eight and had just wacked you head...it seems far fetched that years later this dude shows up…to do what? So, we have to ask ourselves why he is in Georgetown now. What’s his motive? Is he looking for something in your house? I mean assuming he pulled the B & E tonight.”

“Josh, I hope you don’t think this sounds crazy, but I think that I’m dreaming about the man I saw in the elevator because he’s in my subconscious. I think something––or someone––is telling me it’s important to remember seeing him in the elevator.”

Josh mulls this over a minute and I start to wonder if Valentine used the art dealer ruse to sneak into the county.

“Wow, Valentine could be the Russian art dealer as well.”

I nod. “I was thinking the same thing.” I suck in my next breath. “Oh wow, do you think we can get a picture of the art dealer and compare it to the one I took inside the food court in the mall? The white beard has to be a disguise.”

“I guess. Maybe.” Josh puts on his seatbelt and asks me, “So you dream about him a lot?”

“Enough to know he means something. What, I don’t know.” I straighten up in the driver’s seat and buckle up. “After seeing the grief counselor, I wrote about my dreams in my personal journal. Before that, I can’t remember if I dreamed about him. I might’ve stuffed him away because he scared me.”

Josh doesn’t say anything. He looks at the dash clock. “Look, we should go. Let’s discuss this on the way to the LOC.” He places his hands on his thighs and look forward.

I check behind me for traffic, and then back out of the driveway into the street. “There’s Pop’s now,” I say, and put my foot on the break, waiting to talk to him.

Josh and I both raise our hands as Pop rolls the van parallel to the Mustang and stops. Pop is smiling. He looks as if he’s in a good mood. Great, his meeting must have gone well. I briefly wonder what the actual date of their wedding is since I’ll be working the wedding reception with him. Then my mind flashes back to the possibility that Valentine could’ve broken in to our house while I was asleep. I was so out of it when I got home. After the deal after school, then seeing Sean and Kelly Albright together. In reality, all that feels like it was days ago.

Pop smiles broadly, as he puts down his window and sticks his head out. “Hi kids, where you headed?”

“The Library of Congress to do some research,” I explain, smiling up at him about to ask if he knows about our burglary.

Pop checks his wristwatch. “You won’t have time...it closes in about thirty minuets.”

“Hi Mr. B.,” Josh pipes in. “Actually, Cookie and I can stay there as long as we need to. My dad is old friends with the night clerk, Mr. Getman. Dad set it up with Mr. Getman to let us in and out through the employee entrance when we leave.” Josh flashes Pop his fathers badge and ID.

Pop nods. “Aye, that’s fine then. Josh, I trust that my daughter is safe in your hands.”

I look over at Josh. He’s leaning forward to see Pop, and then back up at Pop. The two are smiling earnestly at each other and nodding their heads. Whatever. “Hey Pop, did Ivan call you about the break in?”

Pop rocks in his seat. “He did.” His eyes travel to the front of our house. Frowning, he rubs his chin and says, “Actually, that was apparently another blunder, much like what happened with Josh. Ivan said he would correct the error and that we not to worry.”

I flick a look at Josh and he raises his eyebrows. I turn and look at Pop again. “Okay. Um, one more thing. Remember after I fell and bumped my head on the intermediate slopes in Schladming, Austria when I was eight?”

“How could I forget? You smacked your noggin so hard on the tree stump, you were knocked out cold. Scared the living bejusus out of me.”

“By any chance do you recall the man that rode in the Alpine Chalet Resort elevator with us right after?”

Pop raises his red bushy eyebrows. “Um, vaguely…why do you ask?”

“No reason, I just found it strange that I had a dream about him that’s all.” I smile and decide to drop the subject. Besides, I don’t want to take the time to explain everything right now. “Bye Pop!”

I blow a kiss and Pop does a little salute. He puts up his window, and pulls into the driveway. I check behind me then push down on the gas. “I’m thinking I should I take 30th Street down to M and then kick over to Penn.”

“Yeah,” Josh says vaguely. “That’s how we always go.”

I turn left at the corner and Josh and I look at the surveillance van as we roll by it. I say, “Should we wave?”

Josh laughs.

At the corner, I stop and reach around behind the seat. I pick up my tattered music case and hand it to Josh. “Pick out a CD.” I check the traffic, and then push on the gas turning right on 30th, heading south. “The black car with my bodyguards isn’t behind us.”

Josh turns and looks back. “I suspect they plan to hang back a bit as to not draw attention.” He slides in my homemade Goo-Goo Dolls Fist Release CD and I sing along softly. Josh scoots down on his tailbone, putting his hands behind his head and breaths in the night air. Between songs he asks, “How long you been a diehard Goo fan?”

“From the beginning.” I gesture at the dash. “I copied that CD their vinyl. It's not illegal. Is it? I mean since I bought the album.”

Josh drums his thighs. “Hope not. So did I.”

I say, “Trivia time. Did you know that Rzeznik refused to sing because he of his shyness?”

“Yeah, I read that and can relate.”

I flick Josh a look. He used to be bashful, but he doesn’t come across that way now. I guess being smart and all buff gives a man confidence.

He says, “Takac and Tutuska were good friends in school. They met Rzeznik while they played with Takac in The Beaumonts.”

I smile. “I guess you know that Takac’s cousin started that band. They picked their name from a True Detective ad for a toy called a Goo-Goo Doll.”

I make a face. “I know. I read that they were high at the time. I guess it’s the norm for bands.”

Josh says, “I read in Rolling Stone that they said that they’d learned that drugs weren’t the answer to creativity and success.”

“Me too.” I check the rear view mirror. Still no sign of my bodyguards. I say, “Apparently we both know all there is to know about our favorite band so why bother drilling each other. Anyway, I think that they’re music is a whole lot better now.”

We drive in silence for a few blocks, listening to the songs.

The CD plays through to the last song and Josh takes it out and says, “Talk to me.”

“About?”

“Lets discuss the fact that Ivan suspects the stalker––or stalkers—might be linked to your mom’s death because of the papers she translated and or decoded.” He slides the CD back into the case and twists around, to place it on the floorboard behind his seat.

“So, first of all, don’t you find it kind of odd that there are a bunch of “so called” evil people hunting the world over for documents Mom worked on after the Cold War? Why now?”

 “First of all…” Josh says adamantly and holds out his hand. He counts off on his fingers. “If we knew how the KGB felt about what happened during the Cold War we might understand the why now part better.”

“Hello. My mom is dead. The Russians are obviously still ticked- off about something she worked on. That brings us to the What part.”

“Look, both Ivan and Dad said Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely worked on “very highly sensitive intelligence” stuff. It would be interesting if this man in your nightmare is somehow connected to the bunch of chattering on the wires.”

I flick another look at Josh. “I guess that’s another twist we need to pay attention to regarding our investigation. We can check International news stories.” I blow out my next breath. “I just hope that who ever Valentine is, he doesn’t want us dead too.”

“Yeah me neither,” Josh says sounding worried.

We’re silent for a few blocks. For some reason the traffic just became extremely heavy. We are barely moving. People are out in the center of O street, loud bass music is playing. There’s a party or gathering at a house and it’s pouring out onto the lawn and into the street. A horn blows and I check my rear view mirror. A car is riding my bumper. I turn around to stare at them but their bright headlights blind us. I can’t tell if it’s my bodyguards. They toot again and a chill of unease runs through my spine. I grip the steering wheel. “Where the frick do they expect me to go?”

Josh rises up in his seat to see up ahead. “That’s Benjamin Crisp’s house. Wonder what’s going on?”

As we pass through the intersection of O and Thirtieth, I witness James Beal talking with Ben. I ask, “Why didn’t we know about this?”

Josh says, “Don’t know. I’m not in the loop. Never have been.”

I check my rearview mirror again just as the car behind me eases off and squeezes into a parking spot next to a fire hydrant. Josh laughs and says, “Paybacks. Ticket and a tow.”

We high-five and I look over his shoulder. “Char, Sean, Billy and Kelly Albright just got out of that car.” We roll past Ben’s house and watch them making their way to the house, stopping to chat along the way with other kids from school. I catch Sean smack Kelly on the butt. Isn’t that lovely. I drive for a few minuets fuming in silence. I’m mad at myself for letting Sean get to me. I mull over my emotions wondering why I even care. I didn’t love Sean, he was a rude pig…well maybe not a pig, but he was uncouth.

Josh cracks his knuckles and says, “So, tell me more about your nightmare, if you don’t mind and can remember it.”

“Are you kidding, every little detail is embedded in my brain.”

Josh clicks on the map light on the dash and I shoot a look over. He has a small notebook open and a pen in his hand. “I’m going to draw a composite. Just for the heck of it. I like to draw.”

“Okay. Well, like I said, he has bushy black eyebrows and a birthmark—shaped like a tiny heart underneath.” I stop at a red light and tell Josh, “Face me.” I touch the skin under his eyebrow. “It’s right there.” Josh makes a little mark on a sketched face. “He’s very tall and as broad as Pop.” I hold out my hands. “Athletic, you know. As if he might’ve been in the military.”

Josh looks up and points with the pen. I see that the light is green. “Stick with the face. We know that he’s big and wears dark clothing.”

“His face is angular, square-ish—I think he might’ve had a thin mustache…or maybe it was just a shadow.” I watch traffic and I say out without thinking. “I remember seeing F and K embroidered on his black leather glove above his thumb.” I slide my hands together on the steering wheel and show Josh where. “Hello. Fredrik Koshechka.”

“Wow. That is either accurate or beyond coincidental. We are on to something here, just not sure what.”

“What do you mean?” I can actually feel Josh’s exhilaration.

I intermittently glance down at the sketch and my stomach does a flip-flop. It’s Valentine exactly how he looked in my dream. While Josh fills in the background with a dark shadow, making his face stick out on the paper, he says, “Well, the F and K could be a number of things. His initials, the glove manufacturer, um...” Josh passes me the drawing and takes out his cell phone. “You know what? We have to tell Ivan about your little interlude back when with this man in black. The glove and birthmark could prove that he’s been in the picture for years.” Josh punches a key and puts the phone to his ear.

I lay the little notebook in my lap and grip the steering wheel. My temple throbs slightly, but I resist touching the scar. I’m scared. I shove my fear down deep and listen to Josh tell Ivan about my skiing accident, the man in the elevator, the glove and my nightmare. He links him to the suspicious car investigation at Ernie’s rental and the numerous other places I’ve seen Valentine. Then he listens to whatever Ivan is saying. I wish he would put Ivan on speaker so I could hear. Josh turns and looks at me. He nods and says, “Cookie and I think he use disguises too.”

I stop at the intersection of N and Thirtyish and notice a black car keeps hanging a couple of car lengths back. Once more, bright headlights keep me from identifying it as my bodyguard’s vehicle. I reach across and wave. “Josh, ask Ivan if the bodyguards are following us. And if it is them, have him tell them to stop turn off their bights!”

Josh looks at me like are you serious?

I shrug. “They’re blinding me and making me hella nervous.” Josh starts relaying my message just as the car behind turns right. I poke him. “Forget it Josh. False alarm.”

He glances over his shoulder while listening to whatever is being said on the line.

“Cookie, Ivan wants to know if you noticed any other markings on the guy at Checkmart—they’re on a computer enhancer program dissecting the picture you took…as we speak.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. He had lines and wrinkles around his dark eyes. Can they see the tiny heart-shaped birthmark?”

Josh shakes his head. “Not really. Your cell photograph quality is awful…too blurry…his features are really grainy.”

I frown. “Huh, oh well. Tell them that I thought I saw the birthmark when I looked at it on my computer. Oh, and tell Ivan the guy might’ve used pancake makeup to cover the birthmark. That might make it look grainy.”

Josh tells Ivan what I said. He speaks to a couple of the agents, and then hangs up. “They’re checking on the F-K. The beard and eyebrows are definitely phony. Using a high DPI, they were able to detect traces of glue residue on his skin and a few stray black hairs poking out.”

I smack the steering wheel. “I knew it!”

“Ivan thinks that with a little work, the picture should be clear enough to check the International Data Base for a facial match. Earlier tonight, they saw another taxi circling your block. Their infrared camera was able to make out a dark figure in the backseat. That was going on while you and I were in the kitchen making sandwiches.”

“You are kidding me.”

“Nope.”

I picture the heart-shaped birthmark again. It’s the great identifier. After a minute, I ask, “So do they think they’re all one in the same?”

 “Yeah, they sounded like they’re pretty sure…” Josh takes the notepad off my lap. I forget it was even there. He looks at his sketch. “Do you still think the man in the elevator is here in Georgetown?”

“Oh my gosh. Of course. They have to be the same person.” I stop at the intersection and stare at the car ahead of me. Darn if the bumper doesn’t have an Ernie’s Rentals bumper sticker. I point. “Josh, would you look at that…you’d think Ernie was the only rental place in town—”

Josh is watching me. “Well? You didn’t answer me.”

I nod with gusto. “Yes! Yes, I do think that the man following me is the same guy in the elevator. That has to be why I dreamed about him. I think that he wants something from me. Why doesn’t he let somebody know what it is? Uh, I feel so vulnerable. Uh! I hate this!”

Josh squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “Calm down. It’ll all work out. Look, I remember certain things when I was young too. Stuff that scared the crap out of me and I’d go crying to my parents.”

“I’m fine. What happened to make you scared?”

“Like the time I got lost in the woods. I was only two and a half, but I remember every element of how the forest looked like a spooky scene in the Wizard of—”

“Operation: Valentine!” I blurt out and rock forward in my seat. “Let’s use the code name “Valentine” to name our investigation assignment.” I laugh. “Hey, Ivan named this mission, Operation Cookie Cutter. I can give my stalker a code name. It’s easier than saying—stalker, Checkmart guy, taxi guy, guy in my nightmare, yadayada.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “This is a real eye-opener and it scares me to death. It also intrigues me no end.”

“What if it’s a fluke that these men just happen to wear black coats and hats? I have to play devil’s advocate.”

I grip the steering wheel and shake my head. “Josh, it can’t be a fluke that they all look alike and dress exactly the same way—always in that black spy overcoat and Dick Tracy hat. The white beard and make-up…are professional disguises. Mr. J’s book said Fredrik Koshechka was ‘a master of disguises’. Plus intuition tells me that Valentine has been following my family for years—maybe even before I was born.”

“But why…what does he want?”

“I don’t know…revenge?”

Josh shifts in his seat and looks at me. “Cookie, the first time you saw Valentine, you were around nine years ago in the Alpine Chalet Resort elevator in Schladming, Austria.”

“Yes, that I remember, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t spying on Mom beforehand.”

Josh clicks his pen and pulls out the palm size notebook from his back jeans pocket, again. “I’m writing down a rough timeline and any questions we need to get answered.” He pats his pockets. “Gotta pen? Mine just ran out of ink.”

I point to the glove box. “There should be one in there.”

Josh finds my pen and writes several minuets. Finally, he reads to me what he’s written so far. “First of all, who is Valentine and why is he here in Georgetown following you around? Second, if he is the same man you saw in the elevator, what does he want from you after all these years? Third, what does F. K. stand for—questions that need to be verified.” He turns the page and writes some more.

I roll my eyes. “It feels like we are spinning our wheels.”

“No way. For amateurs, we’re kicking butt and taking names!”

“Whatever.” As I merge onto Penn Ave, my eyes go to my rear view mirror. About two car lengths back, I spot the same black car that’s was on my tail earlier and a black and white taxicab behind it. Is Valentine following us too? My eyes dart back and forth from the mirror to the traffic ahead. It’s almost 10:00 and traffic is still fairly heavy. I swing left just past Washington Suits and then hang a right on Twenty-fourth, this takes us past Foggy Bottom Metro Station. I stop at the corner of Virginia; ease out into traffic and through a short tunnel underpass. The black car and taxi are both still behind us. I glance over at Josh. His head is bowed, writing in the little notebook.

“Psssst, Josh! I think we’re being followed by both Valentine––in a taxi––and my bodyguards.”

“Where are they?” Josh’s head is spinning this way and that.

“Don’t turn around. Use the outside mirror to see.”

Josh sticks his hand out and adjusts the side mirror. “I don’t see a taxi.”

I check the rearview mirror again and explain, “A few cars back is a black car with the big antenna—my bodyguards.”

“You sure it’s them?”

“Yes, they’re in the same car I saw them in earlier. Anyway, a taxicab is following us too. It’s behind the city bus.”

Josh adjusts the outside mirror some more. “What bus?”

At the red light, I look to my right and past Josh. I say, “The taxi is right next to us!” I duck down and gesture low with my hand. The driver is the same one with the turban. My bodyguards slide in between my bumper and another car. Josh turns his head and brazenly holds up a hand. I stop as the next light turns from yellow to red. I ask Josh, “What are you doing?”

Josh turns and smiles at me. “It’s okay, it’s your bodyguards. Ivan told me they’d be on the look out for your stalker. They’re shortwave radio picks up taxi frequencies. Sorry, did I forget to mention that?”

 “Josh, I know that they were back there.” What Josh just said sinks in and I reach across the consol and smack his arm. “Wait do they know for sure that Valentine is in that cab?”

“No.”

I steal a quick glance in the rear view at the silhouetted heads behind me in the black Mazda. “It’s stupid. Why are they tailing us to the library? They should concentrate on the man in the cab!”

“Get real. There are probably several other FBI agents out here.”  Josh returns to his notebook making notes while he talks. “You don’t seriously think Ivan is going to let you gallivant all over town without about a hundred armed escorts surrounding you do you?”

 “Great. Did Ivan happen to mention for how long these KGB goons are going to be in town before they catch them?” I sit back and see that the light has turned green. I press on the gas and follow the traffic through the intersection. Suddenly a flash of white light temporarily blinds me. It’s the headlights on a large truck in the oncoming lane. I shade my eyes, blinking several times to clear my vision. I really have to focus on my driving. I can’t stop thinking about the weird dream I had. At the next light, I can rest my forehead on the steering wheel for a second.

The elevator stops abruptly jarring my head. It hurts but I refuse to cry out. I’m Poppy’s tough Cookie. The big silver doors part and a very big man dressed completely in black, steps in. He looks like the boogieman. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I hear his voice. I can’t stop staring at him. I hear Pop say, “Hello.” The strange man asks with a heavy accent, “What happened?” Pop explains that I fell and hit my head. That it’s not serious. The man nods his head while removing his black, fur-brimmed hat. He has binoculars around his neck. I point with my free hand and say, “They’re like Mommy’s”. Pop says yes. The man asks me, “Does it hurt much?” He’s referring to the gash on my temple. In my mind, I scream “Yes! I’m so scared.” I drop my eyes and hold my breath afraid I will cry in front of the stranger. I feel something wet on my cheek. I don’t want to see blood on my fingers. I pull my hand from Pop’s grasp and grip the silky smooth cool material of my new skiing outfit and look down at my boots so small between Pop’s and the man’s black shoes. The man says softly, “Tough cookie huh?” Stunned, I look up at the stranger and he smiles kindly. How does he know my name? Then I think about when Pop said the same thing to me when I got hurt a long time ago and didn’t make a fuss. I force a little smile. I openly search the man’s broad face. He is scary looking but his unusual features hypnotize me. My eyes come to rest on a perfectly red heart just above his left eye. It’s slightly hidden by a bushy black eyebrow—I briefly think that maybe it’s a tattoo. The man who cuts our grass has many tattoos. The stranger winks at me causing the little heart to flutter. Fascinated, I stare blatantly at the little heart––I watch while he exits the elevator on the same floor. He heads in the opposite direction, making his way down the hall about to turn the corner. Pop nudges me toward our suite 406. I’m unable to take my eyes off the man in black. At our door, Pop fumbles with the card key and drops it on the carpet between his big ski boots. At the end of the hall, the stranger stops and watches us, his huge black mass looks distorted and wavy. The hallway begins to flow like melting liquid. Suddenly my stomach feels yucky. I feel like I have to throw up. I desperately want to get inside our suite and run to the bathroom. Where it’s safe. I feel like something is terribly wrong. I scream in my mind “Hurry Poppy, I feel sick!” Poppy is gone. The hall spins around me as if I’m riding a carousel horse. I wrap my hands around the doorknob. It won’t budge. I bang my fist on the door and yell, “MOM!” I want to believe she is on the other side, alive. I want to believe that it was all just a nightmare.

In my mind’s eye, I still see my mother’s smiling face—she’s alive.

Josh yells, “Cookie! Look out!”

I glance at Josh for just a second. His mouth is a big ‘O’ and he’s pointing straight ahead. I look forward. Up ahead the traffic light turns from yellow to red. the little voice of self-preservation screams “STOP!” and I smash down on the breaks. My head is thrown forward and my eye catches a miniature view in the rear view mirror of the two guys in the black car behind us—swerving to the right, tires squealing—then as my head whips. Their right front wheel bumps over the curb. I look back and see black strips of rubber about four feet long. This entire scene plays out like a slow-mo silent movie. So consequently, I have a delayed reaction to what is actually happening to me. I hear Josh moan. He squeezes my right arm then shakes it hard. I look over at him. His eyes are wide with alarm. I blink a couple of times. “Whoa. What just happened?”

“Cookie, listen to me!” Josh says firmly as his head swivels around. He lets go of my arm and points to the right side of the road. He tell me, “Pull over to the curb out of traffic!”

“Huh?”

“We’re in the middle of the freaking intersection of Independence and New Jersey Avenue and the light is red! On coming traffic is waiting for you to move!”

Horns are honking and people are screaming profanities at us as they drive by. Up until this moment, I hadn’t notice. I stare into my rearview mirror. The black Mazda is in the right turn lane. Two faces inside are staring at me with saucer eyes, apparently waiting for me to go too.

“You have to move.” Josh grabs my shoulder and squeezes hard. We lock eyes and he shakes my shoulder, hard. “Now, Cookie before we get into an accident!”

I grip the steering wheel and push down on the gas—nothing happens. More horn are blowing. This makes me nervous. I can’t concentrate.

Josh winces as he rises up on a bruised knee in the seat and waves the cars around us. He waves his arms frantically while I fumble with the keys with a shaky hand trying to start the engine. Mr. Zavallas promised me my newly built engine would go for a long-long time. I look at Josh. “It won’t turn over. “It won’t start…what should I do Josh?”

He leans closer and tells me, “The engine is flooded.”

“Flooded?”

He shouts over the city noise. “Don’t press on the gas…just turn the key!”

After a few more tries, the engine finally fires up, at last. I look around and then at Josh. “What now?”

“Hold on,” he says, and motions for the traffic to stop using hand signals like a mad man. “Okay, they’re waiting for you to go. Go ahead and ease the Mustang to the right. Then pull into that alley between the Cannon and Longworth Office Buildings.”

Mortified, I slide down in my seat and look to the right, where Josh wants me to go. I let off the break and do as Josh instructed. I drive by the black Mazda. It’s empty and parked in a metered space. Where are my bodyguards when I need them? I point. “You want me to drive into that narrow alley?”

“Yes,” Josh says in a firm yet encouraging voice. “Trust me we can park there for a few minuets.” He speaks slowly, “We need to get off the street. Do not kill the engine.”

 I do as he says, park in the alleyway and put the Mustang in park. I sit with my head sagging and stare at my hands in my lap. After a few seconds, I peek up. Josh is turned sideways, facing me. My face must reflect my feelings because Josh is staring at me with concern. I blow out a breath and push my hair away from my face. I say in a little voice, “Sorry…I feel like a total spaz.”

“Well, luckily we avoided an accident,” he says softly. “I was busy writing and you slammed on the breaks. I look up and we’re stopped in the middle of the intersection.” Josh asks me, “So, what exactly happened?”

“Um, I was thinking about my dream and out of nowhere a big truck with bright headlight swerved at me…I just over reacted.”

Josh takes a breath. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“No. Look at me.” I force a big smile. “Don’t worry, really and truly. I’m okay. I’m a tough cookie…”

As soon as I say the words “Tough cookie” a deep voice echoes them back—his voice. The man in the elevator called me a “tough cookie” too because I’d hit my head and I wasn’t crying. In my mind’s eye, I’m a little girl again. My head hurts and I am holding my father’s hand tightly.

Moaning, Josh says, “Tough cookie huh…”

“Yeah.” Then not feeling at all convinced, I laugh lightly. My vision blurs as the memory flashes and settles like a jerky filmstrip. Mom is calling me from the other side of the door…

Josh falls back in his seat, gripping his knees.

I blink back to the present and quickly unlatch my seatbelt. I turn sideways facing Josh. He looks like he’s in agony. “God, are you okay?”

 

Grimacing, he forces a smile. “When you slammed on the breaks, my knees sort of rammed into the dash. It’s just a little bruise. You're acting like my mother.”

We don’t say anything for a moment or two.

I ask to make him smile. “So. You thinking, maybe we should’ve taken the Metro?”

Josh laughs. “No. Jesus Cookie, you scared the crap out of me! What happened? You almost rear ended the car in front of us.”

 “I told you a big truck swerved into my lane.” I shake my head and my hands go to my neck, the muscles feel tight. I was rethinking my nightmare about Valentine, and I guess I zoned out slightly.

“You may have whiplash. What the––?” Josh stops talking mid-sentence and swings his head around. I turn to see what he’s looking at. Everything looks normal. Without telling me, Josh takes off his seatbelt and gets out of the car. He limps to the back of the alleyway, and then goes out and looks up and down the street. He comes back, still favoring his left leg.

“Get down!” Josh hisses, as he gets back in the Mustang.

He pushes me down to where my butt is hanging off the seat and the steering wheel is digging into my ribs. There is a murmur of voices or a maybe I imagine it. I grip the side of the seat and sit on my heels. “Why are we hiding?”

Josh whispers. “I think I just saw your stalker.”

“You’re kidding. Here? Now?”

I clamp my hand over Josh’s hand and he looks at me and nods. I take out my cell phone and whisper, “I’m calling Agent Brody.” I punch Ivan’s saved key and Josh and we put our heads together to be able to hear.

“Brody here,” Ivan says, panting as if he’s running. “Cookie, are you okay and is Josh with you?”

“Yes. My––”

Before I can explain, Ivan tells us to remain in my car. That he is in pursuit and he will call right back. The line goes dead. I’d relay this to Josh, but he heard just fine. We stare at each other and strain our ears.

After a moment, pounding footsteps draw nearer to us. Our eyes lock as we both scoot farther down in our seats bracing for an all out assault. Instead, we hear a soft, “Psst!” We turn our eyes skyward and watch a white legal size envelope flutter through the air and land on the backseat. We rise up slightly and peer over the tops of our seats. A tall dark figure is standing next to the back bumper. I gaps. I mouth to Josh, “It’s Valentine!”

Without hesitation, I hold up my cell phone up skyward and click the camera button several times. Heavy footsteps retreat and Josh and I rise up and high enough to see out the back. Car horns blare and tires screech as Valentine dashes between cars and dodges oncoming vehicles as he crosses the wide boulevard. Hot on his trail are several men dressed in dark suits.

We twist around, searching the alleyway and street trying to see where he went. A bald headed man in a black leather coat with a gun rose over his head stops at the mouth of our alleyway. A pedestrian in a long black coat strolls by and there’s shouting and then a scuffle when the man resists arrest. We can’t make out the conversation, but after a moment, another agent comes over and the bald guy brushes off the man and takes off running after Valentine.

“Uh-oh. Wrong man, again.”

Meanwhile, Josh is taking pictures with his cell phone. I prop up on my knees on the driver’s seat and look at the pictures I took. I turn the phone and show Josh the screen. “It’s blurry. But, that is definitely Valentine!”

We both slide down in our seats to the sound of more feet pounding on the sidewalk. We hear men shouting conversation and turn around look over the tops of the seats as dark figures pause at the mouth of the alley.

“It’s Ivan and my bodyguards.” I wave and whistle. They turn and look at us peering over our seats in my parked Mustang.

Ivan pats the air motioning us to stay. Agent Brody shouts, “Check the Metro Station!”

“Wait! Come back!” I shout and wave my arms. They turn and hustle cross the boulevard, stopping traffic as they go.

“This is so cool. They’re chasing after Valentine and we’re witnessing the whole thing.”

“Great. Now what?”

“Let’s just hang until we hear something.”

We plop down in our seats again

“Okay. But let’s pray they catch him quickly and this is over.” After a few seconds, I pop up and look down the alley. I glance at Josh. He’s studying the photos he took with his cell. “I don’t see any of the FBI people or anybody that looks even remotely like a FBI agent.”

Josh pulls me back down low and across from him. I’m practically under the steering wheel with my butt on the floorboard.

He puts his phone in his pocket. “Better stay down!”

“But Josh, why are we down here? They all took off to the Metro station.”

“Just to be safe.”

“From?”

“Gunfire.”

“Oh.”

I lean into my seat and flip open my phone and scroll through the blurry photos a couple of times. I shake my head. “These pretty much suck. Valentine looks like an apparition.” I show Josh, and then stick my phone in my pocket and hold out my hand.

He looks over. “We don’t really need proof. Ivan is chasing him.”

“True. Let me see if any of your pictures came out any better than mine.”

Josh gives me his cell. “Mine aren’t much better.”

His screen shows a fairly clear photo of large man in a black hat and overcoat.  “More importantly, we know that it’s definitely Valentine stalking me.” I hand Josh his phone. “Josh, you saw him with your own eyes. Do you think he’s Fredrik Koshechka?”

“Let’s just say that I could identify him in a line up.” Josh points toward the back seat. “Uh, did you forget about the envelope he dropped in your backseat?”

“Oh my gosh!” I stretch forward, reaching between the seats, and grab the envelope. I stare at the crumpled envelope in my shaky hand. “Слон is on the only thing written on the front. It’s Russian. It means elephant,” I whisper, “Valentine dropped this on purpose. Why would he write elephant?”

Leaning sideways, Josh puts his phone in his pocket and then takes the envelope from me pinching a corner carefully. “Let’s try to preserve any fingerprints.”

“Sorry.”

“Maybe it’s a code name or word. Elephants never forget.” Josh holds it up toward the sky squinting as he turns it over then. “It’s sealed…if he used saliva…we have DNA.”

Leaning closer, I stare up at it. “There something inside. Open it!” I say excited.

“I don’t know. Should we?”

“Yes! I can’t stand the suspense! Besides it’s obviously meant for me.” Josh digs in his pocket. “Wait. You don’t think there’s Ricin poison in it do you?”

“No. If Valentine wanted us dead he could’ve killed as point blank.” Shrugging, Josh says, “Here goes nothing.” He uses the tiny penknife on his key ring to slice the flap. He takes out a single piece of paper, unfolding it by the edges. His eyes dart over the words. The note is written in Russian too.

“Well,” I whisper shakily, “w-what does it—?”

I stop talking and listen. Running feet are approaching the Mustang. Josh clamps his hand over my mouth and my eyes grow big. Josh takes his hand away and looks over his shoulder.

“They’re back,” he hisses, then holds his finger to his lips. “Hide this,” he says and shoves the envelope and letter at me.

I quickly refold the letter and stick it back in the envelope, screw being careful about fingerprints. I nudge Josh and he watches me hide it under the seat. “Why hide it?” I whisper, shifting my weight because my legs are cramping.

“I think we should give it to Ivan. He needs to see it before anybody.” Josh shifts and drops his chin down grimacing. Did what he read freak him out or do his knees hurt more than he’s willing to admit.

I nod. Trust no one. “So.”

“Cookie, it says your mom is still alive.”

“Hello there? Is anyone in the Mustang?”

Josh says this just as a deep voice with an accent shouts from the street and I don’t think I hear him correctly. My instinct is to call for help but I decide to wait. Josh and I just stare at each other a second then curl our eyes upward. I perk my ears and press my lips together. We don’t hear anything other than the street noise. Then the distinct sound of footsteps comes toward the Mustang. I push back and roll my eyes skyward again. A really big man is standing right next to the passenger side of the Mustang. He peers down at us wearing this very blank expression and turns his head this way and that. He has black eyes, very small ears and zero facial hair. His mouth looks like a dash mark on a head that reminds me of a cue ball. His forehead is shiny with sweat. I’m like, what is with that leather jacket in August?

“Excuse me?” He says as he reaches inside his coat.

I think he’s going for his gun and I ball up, clamping my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. I slam my eyes shut. Oh-god-oh-god-oh-god. Josh’s hands grip mine. I hear a little click and think misfire.

Josh whispers, “Cookie…it’s okay. It’s your bodyguard.”

I open my eyes. The man is shining a flashlight around the car’s interior. I assume looking for what, a gun, the envelope, which is under my seat. He reaches into his hip coat pocket. This time he pulls out a little black leather case, flips it open and holds it toward us to examine. “I’m Agent Markowitz. Agent Smith and I are assigned to your case by Special Agent Ivan Brody.” He speaks politely and in a strong New York accent, which sounded Russian––sort of––maybe I had Russian on the brain. Josh and I look at the head shot of Andrew Phillip Markowitz wearing wire rim glasses. Then I stare up at the man. The street light is really bright behind his round head. Most of his face is hidden in shadows, but his eyes are large and intense. “You look different without glasses,” I say lamely.

“Oh yeah...well, I wear contact lenses sometimes.” Markowitz smiles shyly down at his ID then puts it away. “Anyway, just so you two know, me and Agent Smith are here to make sure you’re safe and sound.” He gestures by cocking his head in the direction of the idling Mazda at the mouth of the alley, white exhaust streams from the tailpipe. Agent Smith is standing behind the open driver’s side door of the Mazda. The business end of his gun is pointed down at the ground. He has short black hair and looks like he could win the Muscle Man of the Year Award—if there is such a thing. Agent Markowitz puts his case back inside his pocket.

“Uh, Miss Blakely,” my bodyguard says, and pops open the passenger side door because he’s on Josh’s side of the Mustang. “Please step out of the car. You too Mr. O’Dell.”

Face contorted, Josh pushes back in the seat trying to stretch out his legs out the door. He groans as he pushes back into the passenger seat and rubs his bruised knees. Meanwhile, I slide my hand between my door and seat and feel the envelope. I nudge it further underneath my seat to make sure it’s out of sight. I can’t believe that Valentine was close enough to drop it in my car.

Josh and I get out and lean on the side of the Mustang. The FBI man goes back to snooping around in the backseat, shining his little flashlight around the inside of the Mustang. I’m afraid he’ll find the note from Valentine before I have a chance to look it over. He flips the seats forward and I reach over and touch him on the back. He looks up and I frown gravely. “Um, hey! I saw a man in a black overcoat and hat. We think it’s the stalker. Did you catch him?”

Markowitz says, “Yeah, our people chased him for several blocks, but we think he got away by jumping on the Metro.”

I stare open-mouthed at my so-called bodyguard thinking Valentine got close enough to kill us both. How could your people let that happen? A mounting feeling of disquiet cloaks me with dread. I realizes that I’m not safe even with half the FBI and these two gorillas around. I reach over and touch Josh’s arm. He looks over and I mouth. “The note.”

“Are you sure everything’s okay with you and your friend here?”

“Yes, ahem,” I explain nervously and point to my chest. “I’m just fine. But Josh hit his knees on the dash when I swerved to miss a truck.” My voice sounds weird in my ears so I stop talking.

Markowitz puts his hand to his ear and talks into his little ear piece, “Get me an ambulance pronto––” Agent Markowitz points the flashlight in Josh’s face. “Are you hurt son?”

Josh doesn’t say anything. He just turns down his mouth and shakes his head “no”.

“But Josh, I saw you limping.” Hey, I feel really bad. It’s my fault you’re in pain and I would never forgive myself if your legs were badly injured. What if something is broken?”

Josh clears his throat, suddenly coming to life, and says, “No ambulance. It just hurts a little bit. Stop talking about me.” He pushes off the car and walks around normally. “See.”

I look at Markowitz and shrug. “Um, I guess we’re okay, sir…we don’t need an ambulance.”

Agent Markowitz presses the earpiece and says, “Yoh, Marco here. Cancel the ambulance.”

Josh smiles awkwardly up at Agent Markowitz. “My father is MPD Chief Wayne O’Dell. He’s working the Blakely case with SAC Ivan Brody.”

I look for a reaction from the FBI man. Markowitz is nodding his head slowly with a blank look on his face. What’s going on here? Hum, Josh already knows these guys. I decide to keep quiet and wait until I get inside the library to get the scoop. Anyway, before Marko has a chance to respond, a well-dressed party consisting of three couples comes around the corner laughing and talking. Everyone in the group grows quiet as they stroll past the alley. They stare at us and then at Agent Smith still standing next to the Mazda. Agent Markowitz greets them with a dazzling smile. “Good evening folks.” He nods his head at them, and then slowly lowers his gun and slips it into his shoulder holster. All six faces look startled. The men skirt in front of the women, physically backing them down the sidewalk away from Smith. They narrow their eyes at us and whisper to each other as they cross to the other side of the street and enter a bar. Agent Smith motions Agent Markowitz over. We pull our attention back to the issue at hand.

I smile and ask, “So. Now what?”

Marko clamps a hand on the top of my door, consults his wristwatch and raises one of his eyebrows at us. “I understand you two are on your way to the Library of Congress.” This is more of a statement than a question.

Josh says, “Yes sir. That is if you still want to go.”

“Sure.” I turn my head away and force a stiff smile at Agent Smith as he strolls toward the Mustang.

Agent Smith nods at me and shakes hands with Josh. He says, “Josh O'Dell may I suggest you take over the driving from here.”

I detect a slight smirk in FBI man’s tone and I look at Josh for support. He raises his eyebrows in question at me and leans closer and whispers, barely audible. “Would you mind if I drive? It’s just a few blocks to the LOC.”

I’m speechless for a second. “Knock yourself out.”

I hand Josh the keys and get into the passenger seat. I’m out numbered. Josh closes the door for me. I fasten my seatbelt and watch Josh try not to limp as he goes around to the driver’s side and ease behind the wheel. taking a second to re-adjust the seat for his long legs buckles up his gaze drops briefly, to where the envelope is tucked. I give him the okay sign and Josh buckles up and nods his head at me. Josh fires up the engine.

I square my back and cross my arms to show that I am still annoyed at their chauvinism. I don’t appreciate being treated like a emotional girl, or whatever. To calm myself, I take a deep breath and look up at the night sky, thankful for the cool breeze that has found its way through the skank streets of DC. The recent rains cleansed most of the city smell. The alley smells like old garbage.

Agent Smith steps back and puts his hands on his hips. “Drew, we finally ready to roll to the LOC? Or are we headed elsewhere?”

“LOC.” After assessing the surrounding area, Agent Markowitz narrows his eyes at Agent Smith, “You notify the security staff there like I asked?”

“Affirmative.”

That said Agent Smith jogs back down the alley. Once behind the wheel, he toots the horn.

Markowitz reluctantly pushes off my car, backing up with his eyes on me. He points a finger at me. “Take it easy okay?”

I nod sullenly thinking “Tell Josh. I’m just the passenger.”

I turn sideways and watch the big FBI man jog the short distance and get into the Mazda. He slams the passenger door. They wait for us to back out. I sit forward and look at Josh. “Geez, I was starting to think Agent Markowitz might get in the backseat with us.”

“Yeah, well, it’s an intense job,” he says, and fiddles with the mirrors, and then rakes his hair with his fingers. He finally puts the gearshift into reverse, and twists around as he slowly backs out of the ally. He consults his watch and says, “Let’s just try to salvage the rest of this night and hope there aren’t any more Valentine sightings.”

“Sounds good.” Josh pulls into traffic and I flick a look at the side mirror. The Mazda is right behind us. I stick my hand out and pat the mirror. “Josh, is my side mirror adjusted okay?”

Josh glances over and says curtly, “Fine.”

Man, he sounds as tense as I feel. I mull for a minuet in silence. I get my case and put in the first CD I find. It’s the Goo’s greatest hits. Awesome. Perfect. Let Love In is the first song. I sit back and pinch my thumbs and forefingers together and blow out a cleansing breath. The lyrics are a little too realistic. I turn the volume way down. Maybe talking about our investigation will help both of us to calm down. I smile at the side of Josh’s face. “Hey, think they have a tail on Valentine or Fredrik Koshechka or whoever?”

“That would be helpful,” he retorts and speeds up to make it through a yellow light.

“Well. I got the feeling Agent Markowitz felt bad about letting Valentine get away. What do you think?”

Josh just shrugs.

He’s not so lucky at the next intersection. The light turns red and he stops behind a UPS truck and looks straight ahead, griping the steering wheel, drumming it with his thumbs. But he doesn’t say anything. I look past him at the cab driver next to us. The driver sees me and leers at me with a toothy grin. I avert my gaze to the looming silhouette in the back seat. The insides light comes on and I see that it’s an older lady with a big hat on. She gets out as we take off. I twist in my seat and glance back at the two FBI agents. Agent Markowitz is talking on a cell phone. I snicker. He and Agent Smith are probably being reamed by Agent Brody as we speak.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I hope Ivan is reading them the riot act for not catching my stalker!”

Josh doesn’t comment and a minuet or two passes. Geez, moody much? “Josh, Markowitz said Valentine fled on the Metro, right?”

Josh nods.

I look to the right as another taxi pulls next to us. The driver has a turban on a beard. Startled, I slide down in my seat and whisper, “Psst, Josh!” He looks over and I jab my thumb at my door. “Can you see who’s in the cab next to us?”

 “Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure the driver is the same one I saw at school.”

Josh stares openly at the taxi until the light changes and the traffic moves forward. “Your cabby just took a quick right and headed down a side street.”

“What if it’s him?” I sit forward and grip the dashboard. I look back, but we’re too far past the street he took. “Josh, what should we do? Could Valentine have dodged all those agents and flagged a cab and caught up with my Mustang that fast?”

Josh says, “Give it a rest. Ivan has people planted all over this town. We need to act like high school students.”

“Somebody in the FBI should be fired.” Agitated, I cross and uncross my arms over my chest. “Valentine could’ve shot us in the head numerous times!”

 “Yeah, but instead he tosses that note at you…speaking of…” Josh reaches under the seat and comes up empty handed. “I’m driving. Want to see if you can reach it?”

“Sure.” Leaning over, I grope blindly around his legs. I touch the envelope, but can’t grasp it, it’s too far back. I unlatch my seatbelt and reach behind his seat, straining. “Got it!” I crawl back in my seat and buckle up again. My hands shake as I take out the folded paper unfold it slowly, running my eyes over the Russian words, my brain strains to remember the translation. When my entire life imploded after Mom died, written Russian was the last thing my brain wanted to retain. “Josh, other than memorizing the alphabet I totally suck at Russian.”

The traffic comes to a stop. Josh takes the letter from me. He reads it aloud as if were written in English. “I am not an evil man. I am a Christian. I am growing old and want to make amends. You must not be frightened of me. I will not harm you dear one. You will soon learn that Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely is alive and in good health. However, if the American government kills me you will never find her. Sincere wishes, F. K.”

He gives it back.

I stare at her name and mutter, “Eva Sheahan-Blakely…her name is woven into the message…twice.” My eyes dart around the paper and the message becomes clear as my brain remembers and assembles the words like a hand-written special code. This must be a lot like what Mom did for her job with the government. “Holy crap!” I whisper as the words sink in. I stop on the salutation. Oh my gosh. It’s signed F-K. I picture the embroidered black glove on the man in the Alpine Chalet Resort elevator after I hurt my head. “Josh, it’s him. Fredrik Koshechka. The man in the elevator had “F” period “K” period embroidered on his leather gloves. I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

Josh turn off the music and looks over. “Sorry? You’re mumbling.”

“Um. Sorry.” I hold the paper in front of Josh, pointing at the salutation. “Josh, look.”

His eyes flick from the windshield to the paper. “Yeah. I saw that.”

I blink at him stunned to the core. “It has to be Fredrik Koshechka, the KGB man.”

“Yeah. But can we believe him about Eva?” Josh takes the letter from me and holds it up, as if looking for something. “It’s a long shot, but we might be able to trace the paper to the stationery store. Probably not worth the time and effort...”

“What are you looking for?”

“A watermark in the paper.” He presses on the gas. “Yeah, not worth it.”

I take the letter back and hold it up, squinting, turning the paper over trying to see through it. The dim lighting and my tremble hands make it impossible to see any markings in the paper. To steady my arms, I press my elbows into the armrest and consul, eyes glued to the Russian letters. Russian––one-half of my heritage feels so foreign. Josh gives me a sideways glance as he prepares to turn. The traffic clears and as we turn, a street light illuminates the unconventional words and I gasp. “There is a watermark! It looks Russian—surprise-surprise.”

Eva жив и в добром здравии.

I blow out a breath and fold the letter and slide it in the envelope. “I know what you’re thinking…that this could be a trap. Or a trick. I don’t care if it is. Josh, if I want to find out if my mother is alive, I have to go along with this crazy man.”

“Look Cookie, we don’t know who or what we’re dealing with. This man is a professional killer. This could be way too dangerous.”

I shrug and stare at the perfectly written Russian letters on the front of the envelope as if willing them to lead me to Mom. I see it flutter through the air and Valentine’s retreat. The chase that ensured after that. I wave the envelope. “Do you think we screwed up any fingerprints? And not giving this to my bodyguards? Ivan’s going to be mad.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m willing to bet there aren’t any fingerprints.”

“Yeah, FK probably wore gloves.” I run my fingertip over the script-like letters on the envelope. “Why elephant?”

“Like I said, I could be Valentine’s KGB code name. Like “007”.”

“Hum, interesting. So. When should we show this to Ivan?

“We can call him now… or we can wait and give it to him when we get back to your house. Up to you,” Josh says, staring ahead as he maneuvers my Mustang through DC traffic, which is always a pain in the butt. “We’re almost at the LOC.”

I think about what to do for a minute. I glance around. Smith and Marko are on my bumper. “What do you think?”

“Well, if we call Ivan now he’ll want us to meet him immediately. I’ll have to cancel our prearranged meeting with the security guard.”

“That settles it,” I say smiling. “Let’s wait until we get back to my house. I want to see what we can find out about Mom tonight.”

I tuck Valentine’s envelope in the glove box then sit back and I cross my arms, breathing in the night air. We drive by the Lincoln monument. Whenever I come to DC, the massive old buildings send patriotic goose bumps up and down my arms. Combined that with the profound feeling of fear for my very life, the hope, and anticipation that Mom is alive. This is a bazaar way for a teenager to live. Then it occurs to me that while we’re in the library, Markowitz and Smith will be outside. What if some time during the night, Ivan’s people just catch up with Valentine. What if they kill him, then what? I look at Josh and voice my fears.

“Josh, Valentine might be our only connection to Mom.”

“We have to trust that they won’t kill him. Besides, from what I gathered from Dad, Yes, Brody’s people might mess Valentine up a little, but I don’t think the orders are to kill him on sight.” He laugh quietly. “Believe me, if Brody had his way, Valentine would be pushing up daises. Don’t forget, Agent Brody is skating on thin ice with his higher ups. He kills Valentine and loses his job. I don’t think Ivan wants that to happen.”

I force a smile. Something tells me this is going to get really scary.

Josh asks, “So. Did you see Valentine up close?”

“His face?”

I nod.

“Yeah, he ran right up to the Mustang, lobs the envelope into the backseat, and then takes off running. I watched him until he crossed the street. His face was old but not menacing. Funny, I think he winked at me again.” I picture the man in the elevator then at the gas pumps. Weird. “He winks a lot.”

“Winking can be a nervous habit like biting your fingernails. Then again, winking could mean something different in Russia…like a wink and a nod mean, don’t worry, I got your back.”

“I think winking is winking.”

“Then again, there is a chance he has a chronic tick in his eye. He’s pretty old...”

“I guess.” Why do I feel––in a sense––bonded to him? He’s a total stranger.

On 2nd Street, Josh waits for a kid on a bike to clear the driveway. Then we turn into a gated area next to the James Madison Memorial Building. He takes out his father’s pass and slides it through a electronic box. The gates open and we pull into a well lit, yet diminutive parking lot. At this hour its completely uninhabited so Josh easily finds a parking space and turns off the engine. We take off our seatbelts but remain seated. The Mazda pulls threw the gates and parks down the way from us.

“Um, so what are we waiting for?” I ask, staring out at the windshield at the magnificent superstructure. I recall that the Madison Building serves both as the Library's third major structure and as this nation's official memorial to James Madison, the "father" of the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights and the fourth president of the United States. It’s a big hulking building.

Josh jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “The employees use that side door to enter the basement.”

I twist around to see what he’s talking about and my tendons tighten like a rope. I wonder if I’m just out of shape. I didn’t swim much or do anything athletic all summer. I see a metal access door down a short alleyway. I massage my neck. Did I injure my self when I swerved to avoid hitting that truck?

“Mr. Getman, the night security guard is supposed to meet us and let us in.” Moaning, he stretches out his long legs in the limited floor space. “Let’s get out so I can stretch out my legs.”

We get out and Josh hands me my big purple key ring and I slide it on my wrist and think of Char. A ping of sadness in my heart leads me to believe that my life is changing very quickly. Is this what becoming adult is like? We walk around to the back of the car. Josh limps a little. He stretches this way and that. Josh pokes his kneecaps and my eyes go to his legs.

“That better?” I stretch my neck and feel Josh watching me.

“Much. You okay? I noticed you rubbing your neck.”

“Yes. It hurts a little bit. If I keep swimming, it will work out the tightness. It what happen when you’re a lazy butt all summer.”

Josh twirls his hand. “Turn around.”

I do and He pushes my hair over my shoulder and massages my shoulders and it feel wonderful. After a little while, I turn back around.

“Thanks.” I flip my hair forward feeling a little uncomfortable with Mutt and Jeff looking on. I consult my watch. It’s not that late.

Josh jams his hand in his pockets and leans into the trunk. “You know if I’d had it together I could’ve tackled Valentine. He was just that close.” What Josh really means is he could’ve caught Valentine if I hadn’t caused him to bash his knees into the dashboard.

“You should have an x-ray or something.”

“Nah. They’re a little sore, but nothing serious.”

I frown. “I’m really sorry. I’m such a spaz.”

“It’s all good. Walking around the library will help.” He consults his watch and then looks at the door anxiously.

“So do you regret having me for a lab buddy? You can ask Mr. Jackson to switch you back to…”

“Hell no…hey, I may be a nerd, but I’m not stupid.”

“Seriously, my entire life is really gotten a lot stranger. I wouldn’t blame you if you want out…”

“Are you kidding? I live for this stuff. I crave adventure. What happened tonight is a dream come true for me.”

“Yeah a real resume builder.”

“You can’t make this stuff up. Cookie, I would never have dream after knowing each other all these years that we’d be working on a science project that would lead us being assigned with the FBI Investigative Support Unit.” Josh smiles. “What high school kid would love to change places with me?”

I nod and massage my neck some more. “Yeah, it’s all pretty strange. What do they say?”

“Truth is stranger than fiction.”

Josh leans over and narrows his eyes as he examines my face. He smells wonderful, like soap and grapefruit.

I swipe my hand across my face. “What?”

“Your neck…it really hurts doesn’t it?”

I turn my head left and right to see if it still hurts. It does.

“Tell me the truth.”

“Yeah, it is a little bit sore, but I’ll live.”

Josh smiles sweetly as he tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “You are a tough Cookie.”

I mirror his smile then push him away. It’s either that or lay a big kiss on him. Problem is I don’t know where our friendship is headed. But the way I feel right now could lead me down a path he doesn’t want to travel. What is a girl to do? “Wow, what a night.”

Josh leans back and stares up at the night sky. He laughs. “I can’t believe how lucky we were. There we were in the middle of the street and not one traffic cop shows up.”

I little laugh escapes my lips. “No…just a small army of Federal agents!”

Josh laughs again then glances over his shoulder. “Hey, we better go, there’s Mr. Getman now.” He pushes off the car.

Mr. Getman is a slight dark figure outlined in a backdrop of light coming through the cracked door. He steps outside as we collect our backpacks, out of the Mustang. On the way over, I glance around nervously concerned about leaving the convertible top down. Crime in DC is up, however I have two-armed bodyguard to keep an eye on things. I am comforted to know that my little car will be just fine. I hope.

As we approach Mr. Getman, Josh wave and calls out loudly, “Hi Mr. Getman!” He tell me, “By the way, Mr. Getman is hard of hearing.”

“Ah.”

Mr. Getman’s navy blue uniform hangs loosely on his bony shoulders, the matching pants, cinched at his waist with a black leather belt, look two sizes too big. He has a slightly hunched-backed A small handgun is snapped in a holster at his hip. He looks too old to be working so late at night or at all for that matter. He recoils a little, scrunches up his face peering at us through thick glasses then steps lively closing the space between us. We’re under a 100-watt bulb next to the entrance, but his facial features are masked by the brim of his hat. Then the old gentleman lifts his chin and smiles broadly showing a row of perfectly white square teeth.

I stand beside Josh silent as the two men shake hands and pat each other on the back like long lost friends. Mr. Getman straightens his back the best he can, and stares Josh up and down, his gaze landing on his face. “Josh O’Dell,” he says in a graveling voice. “Is it really you?”

Josh smiles and says loudly, “Yes. It’s me.”

The old guy places a clawed hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Lands a live son, you’re all grown up and if you aren’t the spitting image of your father.” His lower lip slips in and out of his mouth as he talks. My Grandmother Blakely does the same thing when she gets excited telling one of her Irish tales. Not to cool when she’s eating. Anyway, as a kid I found it funny, now it’s kind of endearing.

Mr. Getman looks at me and removes his hat revealing a thick patch of snowy white hair parted on the side and combed back neatly with some product. “And who do we have we here? If I may ask?”

Josh leans toward Mr. Getman and says, “This is Cookie. Dad told you I was bringing her with me.”

Not sure what to do, I offer my hand and raise my voice, “Hello. Nice to meet you sir.”

Mr. Getman takes my extended hand and his face breaks out in a wide toothy smile as he squeezes it gently with his bony hand. “I dated a girl named Cookie during the great war. She hailed from Ireland and had beautiful long red hair…just like yours. As a matter of fact she was my first true love.” He let go of my hand and leans back on his heals and stares up at the sky rubbing his long pointed chin. “She was as pretty as Cookie.”

I blush.

Josh leans into me and whispers behind his hand. “Mr. Getman’s Cookie must have been some hot momma.”

I gasp and playfully slug Josh in the arm as Mr. Getman turns around.

Mr. Getman raises his arm and points over my shoulder. “That yellow Mustang with the top down yours?”

I turn. “Um, yes sir why is there a problem?”

He cocks his head sideways and circles his ear with a cupped hand. “Sorry, my hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

I look at Josh.

Josh says, “You need to look at him and speak louder.”

I raise my voice and speak slowly as if he doesn’t speak English. “Yes sir…it is my car…is it okay to park it there?”

Getman pats his trusty sidearm on his meager hip. “Sure. She’s safe as a baby in a cradle. The government tripled the security around all government buildings and the Metropolitan PD patrols the streets in full force. Nobody dare mess with cars or people within a hundred mile radius of the Capital. These days it’s darn near Fort Knox around DC. Those two FBI men friends of yours?”

“Sort of,” I say loudly. I wonder how he knows that they’re FBI.

“Are we ready to head inside Mr. G? I don’t mean to rush, but our time is pretty limited with it so late already and all.” Josh checks his watch then turns to me apparently anxious to get some work done.

“You bet!” Mr. Getman waves a hand. “Follow me youngins.” He pauses and turns and gazes at my Mustang as he unclasps a small walkie-talkie from his belt. “You know what. To be on the safe side I’ll call Charlie and have him stand guard out here. I never forgive my self if something was to happen to a beauty like that.” Mr. Getman squawks out a short conversation, instructing Charlie to stand guard over my yellow Mustang.

When he’s done, I lean closer to Mr. Getman. “Thank you sir. I really appreciate that.”

Josh holds the heavy metal door while Mr. Getman removes the folding chair he’d used to prop it open and sets it inside. The door slams shut without a sound. We follow Mr. Getman down a brightly lit sterile hallway and stand aside while he uses a numerical code to summons a service elevator, which arrive in seconds flat. I look up at the lit exit sign with arrows that point in both directions. The stark hallway we’re presently in leads off to the right and left. I imagine this area was not part of the original blue prints. When the Library of Congress building opened its doors to the public on November 1, 1897, it was hailed as a glorious national monument and "the largest, the costliest, and the safest" library building in the world.

After we enter the elevator, Mr. Getman pushes “L” then steps back and smiles at us.

I mirror his pleasant smile and clutch the straps of my backpack.

Josh speaks up. “Sir, thank you for you letting us work at the LOC tonight.”

He nods. “Fact is I cherish the company. Get’s somewhat lonely in these behemoth old buildings. I know I’m losing it when I start talking to statues of dead people and such.” Mr. Getman looks at Josh. “Joshua, your father tells me you want to follow in his foot steps...except you want to pursue computer forensics. eh?”

“Yes sir!” Josh says proudly and loudly. “I start basic training next summer. I can’t wait!” His deep voice booms in the small space.

The door slides open and we exit the elevator. I exit first and step aside not sure which way to turn. Mr. Getman turns to the right and shuffles a few steps ahead of us. He takes presses his thumb to a little screen and the metal doors open automatically.

 “Watch your step. At this hour, more than half of the lights go off on a timer to conserve energy.” Mr. Getman chuckles and flips on a small but powerful flashlight and points it at the floor.  “I’ll get you two set up on the computers upstairs.”

I take a few steps and twirl around taking in the majestic statues and marble columns. The floor is dominated by statues and paintings of America’s leaders and its history. I look up at the famous life-size eyeless stone faces of judicious people gazing down on us from the shadows above, as if to say “you know nothing!” I raise my chin in awe letting my eyes travel the beautiful dome ceiling’s ornate works of art. I say, and glance around at the gigantic rooms as we climb a wide arched stairwell, carpeted to keep the noise down. We stop in the large empty shadowy reading room. Every time I’ve been here, it’s full of activity. Groups on a tour or folks here to research anything you can think of. The low lighting gives the place a cozy yet eerie feel.  “Wow, this place is always so breathtaking.”

“It is magnificent,” Josh says. “It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop.”

“I like the quiet. I like the people more. There a h-hoot to watch.” Mr. Getman says as we tackle another carpeted stairway to the second floor. I notice that his chest is heaving and he sounds a bit out of breath.

I get what Mr. Getman means. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been in here.” I mull over the only time Mom brought me here to listen to a lady talk about Suffragettes. That was pretty cool. “The first time I came here was on a field trip in third grade. Josh, do you remember that day?”

“Yeah, all the third and forth grade classes in DC got to visit the Library of Congress and several other historical places around the White House. Didn’t you and Jimmy Beal get lost at the Lincoln Memorial and they had to call security.”

Josh says, “Hey, it was Jimmy’s fault. He wanted to take a bunch of snapshots to enhance his book report. I just happened to be his field trip pal and the one holding his multiple camera cases for him. I innocently followed his lead when he took off looking for a better angle of Honest Abe.”

I laugh and tell Mr. Getman. “They got on the wrong yellow bus and ended up at a school in Virginia.”

“Not my fault,” Josh protests. “The bus drivers didn’t even check to see who was getting on the bus. I was so tired from lugging Beal’s heavy cases I fell asleep on the bus.”

Mr. Getman laughs too. “Now that I think about it, I faintly remember that day. There’ve been literally thousands of school children through here since. At the top of stairs, we turn right on the landing. Mr. Getman pauses to catch his breath and I glance at Josh a little concerned.

Mr. Getman says, “I think you will find what you need in here.” He turns around and waves a arm motioning for us to enter room LJ-G42. Josh and I go inside. There are several desks in the vast room. Not sure where to go, we stand side by side just inside the door, out of the way. Mr. Getman holds the flashlight down as he shuffles across the floor to a reading desk. He steadies himself by placing a hand on the back of a chair and flips on a beautiful antique lamp with a nouveau figurine of a fairy as its base. I know about Art Nouveau because I wander into antique shops around Georgetown. I also know that there are no florescent lights because they can damage antiquities. Anyway, it bothers me that poor Mr. Getman has to pause yet again to catch his breath. He takes a shallow breath and says, “You can make yourself at home here.”

Josh takes my backpack and set it and his book satchel on the floor next to the desk.

“I know how kids these days love technology,” he tells us and propels his stick legs over to an ornate maple table and turns on another lamp. “Therefore you can use these computers to your heart’s content.” He returns to the first desk and powers up two home computers that are sitting on the desk’s highly waxed surface. By this time, he is panting like a dog and his face looks scary pale in the lamp’s light. He removes an inhaler from his shirt pocket, waves it in the air nonchalantly and takes a toke.

I think geez. I hope he doesn’t croak while we’re here. I stay put, but Josh starts wandering around the room. Josh takes a book off a shelf and asks, “How long have you worked here?”

“I’ve worked here for forty-five years, three days and––” He stops talking, consults his loose wristwatch, but before continuing, he places the inhaler between his thin lips, sucks deeply, again.

Josh and I share a look.

After a moment, Mr. Getman’s color returns. He glances around and says, “Now, where was I.” He’s stilling wheezing, but at least the wheezing has a regularity to it. Not that I know that much about the respiratory system other than what I learned as a swimmer. That you can never hold your breath as long as you want to. That a pair of gills would be nice.

I move over to the desk and ask, “Can I do anything for you Mr. Getman?”

“No child.” He raises a hand off the top of the desk and shakes his head. “This is normal.” The screens go to a password log-in mode. He raises his pointed gnarly chin and looks at the monitor’s glowing white screen. His silhouette looks sort of like a Halloween witch in front of a full moon. He uses one finger to punch a few keys and says, “I have a female doc…she tells me I’m hyper-sensitive to all of the dust in this place.” He utters and jabs some more keys on the twin keyboards. “I tell her, what the h-e toothpick? All of a sudden I’m allergic?” Mr. Getman slips the inhaler back in his pocket and pushes off the chair. I just listen and look at the screens waiting for him to punch in the passwords. I get that older people like to talk about their health or lack of. Straightening, apparently having caught his breath, he adds, “Therefore, I say phooey on doctors these—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. I guess he lost his train of thought.

I turn and watch him toddle over to Josh who already has a stack of books in the crook of his arm. I follow him over and take the top book off the stack. It’s Former People: The Final Days of the Russian Aristocracy.

 “Oh, hey.” Josh says, and hands me the rest of the books. “I found some great references.”  He reaches up and takes another thick book off the shelf.

“Yeah, I see.” I take the books over to the computer table, set them down and go back over.

Mr. G is sitting on a stool his hands resting on his bony thighs. He asks, “So, have you two kids known each other awhile?”

Josh has moved out of earshot so I go close to Mr. G and say loud enough, “Yes, sir. We met while attending Sunday school. We were six. After that we had different teachers because Josh was in gifted classes.”

“Cookie was the cutest girl my age in church. I always wished that she would sit next to me during Mass, but that never happened because my mother liked to sit toward the front.”

I feel my face heat up and roll my eyes at Josh, standing right behind me. These are the times when I wish I could read minds. That way I would know if he was coming on to me or just being sweet adorable Josh. I wonder if things would be different between us if Pop hadn’t insisted on the sitting in the back pews. If Mass went too long, he didn’t want to miss a second of his precious Irish footballers.

Mr. Getman smiles at Josh. “Gifted huh? That still mean you have a higher IQ than your average kid?”

Josh shrugs. “I suppose. Mom told them I was “apathetic” about going to school so they put me through a bunch of tedious tests. Actually, the real reason I didn’t like school was because I was sick of being called a skinny geek by a bunch of bullies who wanted to beat me up daily.”

Mr. Getman nods knowingly and feels the muscles in Josh’s bicep. “Well it appears you can handle your own now son. I bet you have the pick of the pretty girls too.” Mr. Getman cocks his head and winks at me.

Wanting to change the subject fast, I cross the floor and pick up a leaflet from the stacks on a marble table sitting against the end of the bookshelf. “How to trace your family tree, cool,” I read the title, more to myself thinking cool. This is exactly what we need.

The computers each make a little beep one after the other and go to screen saver mode. I look over and watch the LOC LOGO bounce around like a tennis ball, leaving tracers shaped like V’s across the surface. I look at Josh. “We ready?”

“Beyond.” He drops off the books and goes over and stands over Mr. G. who seems to have drifted off. He touches him on the shoulder. Mr. G’s eyes fly open and Josh says loudly, “Um sir? Guess we better get started.”

“First, I need to go over a few things with you.” Mr. G smacks his thighs and pulls himself up by clutching Josh’s arm. Hold out his arms like a tightrope walker, he steadies himself, and then goes over to the computers. Josh and I move to the table and bracket Mr. Getman, waiting for instructions.

“I’ll get you kids started using my secret password. That way you can access just about anything you want to look up.” He slowly unfolds a pair of reading glasses and perches them just so on the end of his hooked nose. Then he braces a hand flat on the space between the matching keyboard and leans over jabbing the passwords in with his forefinger and smacks the ENTER key.

The room instantly becomes brighter and I’m relieved to see that Mr. Getman’s color looks a whole better. He coughs deeply with a rumble in his chest His frail shoulders shudder. Still coughing, he plops down in the chair, clutching a white handkerchief over his mouth.

Josh and I take a step back to give him some space.

“Mr. Getman?” I ask, alarmed. “Are you okay?”

The coughing stops and he waves his hand nonchalantly. He folds the handkerchief, puts it away, and goes back to clicking the keys. Squinting at the computer screen, Mr. Getman clicks around opening additional pages. “You’re in the whole system now. You can search for anything you like.” He points with a clawed finger at the screen “This is the main website.” He punches in another password hits enter, and opens another search page titled Newspaper & Current Periodical Reading Room.

Josh pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit.

“Great. Thank you,” I say, taking a seat.

Getman turns and looks at me. “Mind if I inquire as to what subjects you’re wanting to research?”

“Well, several things,” I say, raising my voice a tad. I’m sitting right next to him, no need to shout, right? “Josh is going to help me look up my ancestors for my family tree project…plus a few other things…” I flick a look at Josh wondering if I should I tell him about Mom, however Josh has his back to us checking out some more books. I turn my attention back to the screen and Mr. G. “So, where should I go first?” I remember the brochure on genealogy and pick it up. “Should I follow the instructions on this?”

Mr. Getman takes the brochure and runs a bent finger down the lists. He stops on Archived Editorials. “This here is where I’d start looking.” He gives the brochure back to me. “You’re in the correct reference room for genealogy.” He twist in his seat. “Josh you know your way around here.”

Josh strolls by and says, “Like you always say, it’s user friendly so any simpleton can use it.”

I glance over at Josh and zone out for a moment. My immature mind wonders what it would be like to kiss his full lips…to feel his arms—I smile.

 “I’ll explain it again for Cookie’s benefit,” Mr. G says in his croaky voice and interrupts my fantasy.

Josh looks at me and shrugs. Awe, Mr. G is lonely for company. I appease him and sit there while Mr. G takes a long time to explain in great detail just how simple it is to navigate though the LOC database. Meanwhile, Josh pulls another chair over and starts plowing through the stack of reference books. I lean forward and try to focus on what Mr. G is saying, but my eyes are on Josh. Mr. G’s voice sounds as if it’s in a tunnel, “…and if you click on this tab or that link...or if you select this option...that toolbox will let you... This is the local history and genealogical reading room, humanities and social sciences division.” Mr. G hands me a thick pad of yellow Post-it tabs and breaks the spell. He gestures at the thick hardback book Josh is flipping through. “Feel free to mark pages you want copied.”

I smile sweetly at the nice old man. “Thank you.” He so helpful, I want him to know how much I appreciate getting to being here tonight. I notice the famous Victorian lithograph in a large frame. It’s lit by a brass overhead lamp hanging on the wall next to Josh. It’s featured on the HOME page of the LOC website. I stand and walk over to study the ornately tree drawn of the historically significant Lee family of Virginia and Maryland. “I read on the Internet that the LH&G contains one of the leading genealogical collections in the country.”

“That’s right Cookie.”  Mr. Getman stands up slowly and joins me. He slides his hand inside his pants pockets and rocks back on his heels.

“Awesome!” Josh says rather too loudly.

His voice startles me in the quiet room. I know Mr. Getman is practically deaf, but does he have to yell everything? “What?” I and move over to look down at the book.

Josh shrugs. “Oh, nothing. I just found an article I hadn’t read before.” He sticks a yellow tab on the page before closing the book he’d been reading. I have a hunch he found something relative to our case or Mom. He stands up and rubs his hands together as he looks around the room. He crosses the floor and stops by a row of microfilm machines. “Um, Mr. Getman…?”

Mr. Getman turns around and looks over the top of his glasses at Josh.

“Are we allowed to use the microfilm tonight?”

“I don’t see why not. A lot of the data is a bit archaic, although all of the world newspapers are current.”

Josh flips on the switch, and then runs his eyes down a maple filing cabinet. Each drawer has a brass alphabetical marker. He pulls out a drawer marked “B” and sits down. He finds what he’s looking for and starts feeding microfilm through the slot on the side. I go over and stand behind him looking over his shoulder. Newspaper articles fly across the screen as he flicks from page to page. A color photograph of Mom comes into view.

I shout, “Stop! I read the headline.”

Notorious Linguist Found dead Christmas Day

“It’s a short blurb about the funeral,” Josh says for my ears only. “I read this the day it printed.”

I nod. “Yeah. Me too.” Pop and I read almost every article we could find. I have the clipping in our scrap book. “I’ll scan it again to refresh my memory.”

Josh waits.

Details of her death remain a mystery... December 27, dozens of her Pentagon colleagues, public figures, friends, relatives and admirers of her work gathered at the Oak Hill Cemetery... I see my name and say, “Go ahead.”

Josh clicks to the next article, then the next and the next. This could take forever. Over the last few months, I refused to look at newspapers or the news. I had to move on. Now I’m digging through them like a dog trying to find a bone. Every time I just happened to glance at the news or at a newspaper stand, there was always something about her––most of it redundant. Never anything new. It was so depressing. Occasionally something about me would end up in the news—like that cheesy tabloid of me in my swimsuit… I picture Pop burning the papers in the fireplace and roll my eyes and look at the screen. I see my name again and hold out my hand to stop him. Enough already.

“What?”

 “I have a better idea. Um, could you scroll back to the index page? Please.”

Josh backs up to the microfilm’s first page and stops. “This what you’re look for?”

“Yeah. Let’s find something that grabs our attention.”

He starts scrolling down a rambling list of headlines and I searching for anything I haven’t seen. I hear a slight snore and glance over at Mr. G. I whisper, “Mr. Getman’s taking a cat nap in a plush chair in the corner.”

Josh looks over too. “I have a feeling this isn’t the first time.”

We spend the next ten minuets or so jumping from index to the story.

Josh comments, “Geez, there’s almost was as much stuff written about Mrs. B as there is on Paris Hilton.”

“Oh please. Not even, close. Paris Hilton’s face and body will forever be plastered on the cover of practically every magazine, even after she’s long gone. The girl has it going on.”

“Crikey! Here’s another one! About Paris’s jail time,” Josh says his eyes on the illuminated screen.

“Awe. Poor little rich girl got busted.”

“Play with the bull you get the horns.”

I quote Paris. “Wal-Mart... do they like make walls there?”

We both laugh a little too loudly. Mr. G mumbles in his sleep and I press my finger to my lips. Let the old guy sleep. We grow quiet and continue to scan the headlines for my last name. Most are the ones we’ve seen already. Josh clicks to the next page and points to the date. “Looks as if the last story was on the fourth of July weekend.” He keeps going. “And like we thought, last week they started bringing her case to light again.”

“Right after Agent Werthoust called our house and asked me all those questions about who and what I might’ve noticed in Austria.”

“Coincidence?”

“I think not.”

“Mom’s story just faded away like every big story that doesn’t get solved.” I sit back and exhale out of frustration. “So now what?” “Seriously, are we fooling ourselves?”

Josh tell me, “Look at it like this. Opening our own case on your Mom is a lot like picking the scab off a wound. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t resist.”

I make a face. “Ewe.” I get up and stretch. Then run my fingers though my hair to stimulate my brain.

Josh stands up and stretches too.

“Please tell me this is helping us find out anything new.”

“Uh. I keep asking my self, do I really want to do this?”

Josh grabs my shoulders and shakes me. He whispers forcefully, “We have to if we want to graduate!”

I shrug. “True. How about for truth, justice and the American way!”

“For Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely!”

“Dead or alive!”

Josh salutes me and I salute back. Then we high-five and laugh at our goofiness. Mr. Getman clears his throat and comes to life again. He sits forward in the chair and says, “Eva. Yes, I think Wayne mentioned that Josh would be interested in published editorials on Agent Blakely.”

Opps! I’d almost forgotten he was there. The man is not that deaf. He probably has selective hearing. I recall Mom saying that about Pop.

Josh says, “Sorry we woke you.”

“Um, are you familiar with what happened to her?”

“Oh yes.” Mr. G shakes his head and scoots out of the chair. “I’m a big fan of the modern day femme fatale.”

He thinks Mom is a femme fatale. I blink. “Um, excuse us a moment please. I just thought of something I want to look up.” I twirl around and bug my eyes at him.

“It’s for our Crime Science class assignment.” He gives me a guilty smile. I grab his hand and drag him to the far corner of the room, behind a wall of shelves. I look at Josh with hurt eyes. He looks confused. “So. What’s the deal?”

“Did you tell Mr. G everything about my life?”

“No. Of course not. All he knows is that we’re interested in reading anything about her case. Look, I was thinking that we seriously needed too speed things up so I asked Dad to give Mr. Getman the heads up on what we wanted to research. We can ask him if there are any newly unclassified files added to the LOC database.”

I nod. “Okay.” I drop my eyes as my emotions swirl.

“What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. It’s so confusing. I don’t know what we’re allowed to say and what we’re not supposed to say. Ivan wants us to keep a lot of what’s going on hush-hush.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. Just be yourself.”

“Hello?” Mr. G calls out, “Everything okay kids?”

“Yes,” Josh shouts back. “We found what Cookie was looking for.”

Josh grabs a book off the shelf and follows me back. He flips the book open and pretends to be reading.

I pause before turning the corner and look at Josh. “What exactly is your definition of a femme fatal?”

“A seductive woman who lures men into dangerous or compromising situations.”

My mouth drops open. “No way! Uh! I hate that people have the wrong idea about her.” I turn to go. “I’m going to straighten Mr. Getman out…”

Josh is on my heels. “Just chill and hear him out. Cookie, Mr. Getman is a current affairs junkie.”

I stop and twirl around. Josh’s face is inches away from mine. “So I should play dumb?”

“Just saying. Let him talk. We might learn something.”

I consider this and look around the corner of the bookcase. Mr. Getman is facing in our direction, but the corner is dark. I wave Josh forward.

“You first.”

I take a giant step forward toward Mr. G’s chair and see that he is awake. He’s flipping through a National Geographic magazine. His skeletal legs are crossed at the knees, exposing a narrow wedge of very white flesh at the top of his dark socks. I open my mouth to speak to him and Josh leans into my back. I close my mouth. Mr. Getman looks at me and I hold up my finger at him.

“Ahem, excuse me one second.”

I turn around and look at Josh with wide eyes. Without looking up from the book, he mutters softly, “Don’t say that Eva’s your mom.”

“Got it.” I go over, turn around one of chairs by the computers we are going to use, and smile sweetly at Mr. G as I sit down. Mr. G yawns behind his hand.

 “So Mr. Getman,” I say stridently so he can hear me okay. He looks up from the magazine and I gesture toward Josh. “Josh just informed me that you are into current affairs.”

“I enjoy keeping up with what’s happening around the world.” He closes the magazine in his lap and folds his hand on top of it.

“Super. Well do you mind helping Josh and me learn we can about Eva Blakely?” Might as well jump into the pool. Time is ticking away.

Mr. G asks, “You want to discuss the Eva Blakely case?”

“Yes sir. I heard about her because it was all over the news. They stopped reporting stuff on mo… Eva though…” I pause to remember to choose my words carefully. “I mean, it seems like her death was pretty much unsolved so end of story.”

“The news reported it as a work place accident. That’s what the FBI told them to say. You can’t get the Bureau to tell you the truth about what really happened.”

“Well, that’s one reason why Josh and I thought it would be interesting to open our own case on Eva to see where it leads us.” He doesn’t say anything so I continue. “Um, Mr. Getman, just curious. I thought that Eva was just a cryptanalysts. Why you would you call her a femme fatale?”

He rubs his hands together thoughtfully. “Maybe I mischaracterized her a smidge.” He smiles briefly. “I’m an old-fashioned quixotic.” He seems tickled with himself. “Just because there’s snow on the rooftop doesn’t mean there isn’t fire in the furnace.”

Josh giggles and I flick a look at him.

“I don’t understand.”

“This may sound silly to a young woman, but it gives this old man a trill to follow the going ons of intriguing woman. I live vicariously through their lives and like to write short stories about them with me as the protagonist. When her name became headline news, I started working on my latest flash fiction story. The Eva Sheahan-Blakely Code Chronicle. I get a big kick reading the stuff on the Internet, newspapers, and watching the stories about her so called “mysterious death” being spun by the media. Now I’m into it hook, line and sinker.”

I smirk. “In my opinion, the Feds bumbled her case, big time! They always tell the public that it’s either and on-going investigation or that it’s a treat to national security. The media only parrots one another…”

Mr. G keeps nodding his head in agreement. I remember Josh saying listen and learn so shut up so he can talk.

Mr. G sits forward in the plush chair. He has this old man poignant expression on and it looks as if his whole face is melting. “I completely agree with your premise about the Bureau. The way they treat the public is un-American and downright chilling. They’re as bad as the IRS.” He scowls and emphasizes his words by poking a crooked finger at the air. “The problem with the world is laziness. Every one has their hand out. But I digress. In any case, journalists these days have become over-paid celebrates. You’re absolutely right. It’s easier to plagiarize one other than do your own investigative work. They call themselves reporters? My patootie!”

“Not only that Mr. Getman, but the stories don’t tell you any facts. It’s all about their personal opinions, which are swayed by their political leaning. It’s impossible to know the who is telling the truth.”

He frowns deeper. “Maddening isn’t it? And because of the media’s gross incompetence, I decided to investigate Eva’s bio. Find out things for myself. I long to know about her personal life and background, but I keep hitting a wall. I look several times a day to see if I missed something or if there is ever a break in the case being reported. Like the rest of the world, I wonder what happened that morning she disappeared.” He reaches up and pulls the chain of the floor lamp next to his chair. “I confess, I think about her all of the time.”

“Wow, you’re totally into her.”

He smiles bashfully at me and bobs his head. “Guilty as charged.”

Now that we’re in better lighting, I notice that he has clear blue eyes and was probably a babe in his days. I picture him all decked out in his uniform. Anyway, I mull over all this for a moment. Mr. G bows his head briefly and I think he’s nodding off again.
He says. “God rest her soul…” His voice trails off, but his eyes open. “Sorry, I’m talked out. I hope my obsession didn’t make you uneasy.”
I nod my head in the negative. “Not at all.” I lie.
“Let me rest my voice and I’ll think about what I’ve gathered on Eva.” He rests his elbows on the chair's arms, clasping his hands under his pointy chin, index fingers together pressed against his lips, scrutinizing me while he muses.
I become uncomfortable under his gaze. Does he know I am her daughter? Does it matter? I sit back and glance around at the shadows cast by the table lamps. I conclude that it’s not a coincidence that Mr. Getman brought us to this particular room. Suddenly the air becomes noticeably colder and I feel Mom is here with us urging us on. The low electrical hum of a powerful air conditioning system tells me that is why it’s so cold––duh Mr. G just said it's to preserve all this historical paper.

Josh breaks the silence. “A real quagmire if you ask me.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“Eva’s case.”