CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

Agent Markowitz tosses us a pack of handy wipes and settles back in his seat. He picks up a large cellular phone (or walkie-talkie, thing) from the center consol and punches a few keys. Then speaks to someone in a foreign language or maybe it’s a code. Sitting forward a tad, I rush to wipe my hands and strain to hear what he’s saying. Josh is doing the same. I’m able to pick out a few words I recognize as Russian. сейф и звук, safe and sound. I’m thinking, man, if only I was further along in Russian. Thank God for Josh. Marko starts slipping in and out of English. He clicks off and inserts it back in the cradle. I’m almost certain I heard him say ‘Baker Man’ a couple times.

“So, looks like a go?” Smith asks Marko as he maneuvers around a stationery fire truck with––about a million––flashing emergency lights.

I sit back in the seat and whisper to Josh. “Was that Ivan Brody on the other end?”

“Excuse me sir,” Josh says, raising his voice to be heard over loud sirens going by us. “Any chance you can tell us what Agent Brody had to say just now?”

Flabbergasted, I look over at Josh.

“Can’t hurt to ask,” Josh says out of the side of his mouth.

“No,” Smith tells us flatly.

We approach two police officers in green glowing rain gear standing in the intersection. Their flashing cruisers are parked in the adjacent intersections blocking traffic from going through. Both FBI agents simultaneously hold up their creds, and they wave us through. Markowitz turns to Smith and says, “Ебля идиоты стоя под дождем.”

Smith laughs.

I can’t make out what he just said. I lean toward Josh and whisper, “What’s so funny?”

Josh just shakes his head.

I get it. Expletives. I roll my eyes.

The two Agents continue speaking in Russian. I give up trying to understand what’s being said since Josh can tell me later on. I stare at the back of Marko’s huge head. He reaches up and flips on a map light inset in a panel between the visors. Smith says something and Marko sneers and then twists around to look at Josh and me. His black eyes look creepy in the map light. I look forward again and my eyes slide to the right side of his face. He has a nasty jagged scar carved under his cheekbone. I shudder. Like Valentine’s birthmark, I can’t take my eyes away. It seems to be a design of some sort. Marko holds a legal pad just like the one Ivan gave Pop and me up to the light. He touches his finger to his tongue, turns back the first page. I find myself leaning forward to see the scar more clearly. The leather seat makes a weird noise and Agent Markowitz turns his head, cutting his eyes at me. I sit back in the seat.

Marko tell Smith, “According to Brody’s ‘call-in schedule’ he planed to contact Christopher Blakely at nineteen hundred sharp.”

“Scratch that,” Smith retorts. “Before Brody took off, he informed me that he’d have to reschedule due to the unexpected event at the school.” Smith raises his voice. “Uh, Miss. Blakely!”

He says my name loudly and curtly. I lift my chin and he finds my face in the rear view mirror. “Yes?”

“If you would, please relay that message to you father...saves me a phone call.”

Who am I kidding; they know we are listening to every word. “Sure thang,” I say, saluting trying to hide my uneasiness.

“спасибо” Thank you.

“Um, where exactly is Ivan?” I ask casually. “Just wondering if he’s somewhere I can call him? I’m eager to know what was going on with my Mom’s case.”

“Sorry Miss, I couldn’t say. He’s presently MIA.”

Agent Markowitz flips the page back and drops the pad into a side compartment located in the space between the two front seats. He turns off the map light and the interior goes dark except for the airplane like lights on the dash. A boxy bread truck cuts in front of the Mazda and Agent Smith break suddenly throwing us forward. Smith lays on the horn and the driver sticks his middle finger out the side window. Smith cocks his head toward agent Markowitz. “Yo... Marko...if we ever get outta this freaking traffic I wanna go for a big steak. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. You know I get cranky when I don’t get enough protein in my diet.”

“I noticed. You’ve been скулить all day!”

Bitching. I giggle. The two act like old married people.

When we finally get past the traffic, jam between 38th and 36th—which is mostly caused by rubber-neckers—the four of us relax and discuss the Char incident. Smith finds Char’s antics hilarious and laughs like a hyena. I stare at back of their large heads and the tops of their shoulders. Both are pretty cute...if you go for gorillas. I have to be honest—now that I know, there really is some weirdo out there stalking me—I like having these two watching my back. I don’t mention that Char is—was—my best friend. They say that if a situation should occur, they’d go in guns blazing to save me. How cool is that? Turns out, Markowitz and Smith were parked across the street from the football field when Char and Billy got into an argument.

Marko laughs and says, “Let’s just say we witness the whole thing unfolding and it wasn’t pretty.”

Markowitz and Smith look like they could take on our whole football team with one hand tied behind their backs. The guys keep talking but I tune out. I stare out the side window and briefly wonder where we’re headed. I’m overcome by a moment of profound introspection, seeing that my life has been flipped upside down. I hear Mom’s voice telling me to help her…

A little “BEEP” comes from the contraption in the consol and pulls me back to the present. Markowitz reaches up, flips on the interior lights, and checks the device. He pushes a few keys then mumbles something under his breath that sounds like crude Russian.

Agent Smith turns his head to the right as he makes the turn and heads down my street. Thank you god. The headlights shine on the back of Pop’s van. Sigh. No doubt, Pop has the news on and is freaking out.

Smith pulls in front of our house, puts the Mazda in park, and keeps the engine idling.

“So, tell me, just how long are you guys going to be following me around?” I figure what the heck, if I should be able to ask my bodyguards direct questions.

“Good question,” Smith mumbles, tossing me a look over his shoulder. The thin skin in the scar moves when he talks. I quickly avert my eyes from Smith’s messed up face to a small spiral notebook attached to the dashboard. Fredik Koshechka is written on it in bold block letters. I promptly commit to memory the spelling by breaking it down (Fred-ik Ko-she-chka).

I gasp. “FK” The glove.

Agent Smith catches me staring at the notebook and flips it over.

“Okay.” I force a smile and pat the seat. “Well...ah-hem...thanks for the lift guys.”

Smith holds up a finger to his lips.

I was so focused on memorizing the name I didn’t realize Markowitz was still on the big cell phone. Hum, I would love to know who he’s talking to and what it’s about. Unfortunately, I can’t hear what he’s saying. I flop back in my seat. Jeez, I feel like I’m in the middle of a James Bond movie and I am the leading lady.

“Home again home again. Jiggedy-jig,” Agent Markowitz sings sarcastically reciting the Three Little Pigs. What is that code?

Josh unbuckles his seatbelt, opens his door, and reaches for our stuff sitting on the floorboard between us.

“Hold your jets O’Dell,” Agent Smith barks over his right shoulder. “Stay put while I secure the area.” He slides his hand under his leather jacket and pulls a huge handgun from its holder. “Cover me,” Smith whispers to Marko. He pops open the driver’s side door and then shuts the Mazda’s door soundlessly. He bends at the waist and look in at us through the side windows. His grisly scar is visible in the bright glow of the street light. It looks like someone carved graffiti into his flesh with a dull knife. I feel queasy. What happened to him? Car accident? Bar fight?

Marko leans forward and points a handgun out the windshield covering Agent Smith as he dashes from tree to tree with his gun leading the way checking the outside of the our well lit house for what?

Josh shuts the door and flicks a look at me.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, scoot forward, and put my hand on the back of the Markowitz’s seat. “You have to tell me what’s wrong!”

“Nothin’s wrong. Just protocol.”

 Josh waves his cell phone and asks, “Mind if I call my parents?”

“Knock yourself out,” Marko says then cocks his head watching Marko,

God, I hope they don’t shoot anybody.

I remain sitting forward my hand clutching the back of Marko’s seat. I feel fidgety. Josh is talking softly to his mom, explaining our situation. I want to ask Marko about Agent Smith’s scar, but I’m afraid to. I don’t know why. I twist around and look out the back window. It’s still drizzling but the storm seems to be petering out. I glace at the dash. The clipboard is covering clock. I look down at my wrist. I have no idea what time it is anymore since my (piece of poop) watch died. I gasp. Oh my gosh! I forgot all about Sean! Oh well. He was out in the parking lot and saw everything. At least I think he was. Hum, why can’t I remember? Ah-hah, I say silently coming up with a brilliant idea. Nobody seems to notice when I discretely take my notebook and pen out of my backpack. I quickly jot down what I think the scar looks like, and then put the pen and notebook away. I repeat what I wrote over and over in my head. “слон”.

Where have I seen this before? Elephant! It was on Valentine’s envelope.

“All clear. Fire plug, gotta move,” Agent Smith says as he climbs behind the steering wheel. He slides the gear into reverse, twists around as he backs the Mazda up, then pulls into our driveway behind Pop’s van. He kills the engine and Josh pops opens his door. The interior lights come on and my eyes go right to the scar. It’s mesmerizing. How does it connect with Valentine?

“We won’t be here long.” Agent Markowitz mutters loud enough for all to hear. “Brody said he has a visual on FK in the vicinity.”

Meantime, Josh hops out, runs around the back of the Mazda, and swings open my door. He has both of our backpacks in one hand and offers me his other. Hum. I could get used to this. Josh and I stand on the walkway and watch the agents back out into the street and disappear around the corner. Josh’s cell goes off. I waiting for him. He’s only on a second or two. He looks at me. “My dad is going to call me with an update when he can.”

“Okay. Good.”

His face breaks into a big smile. “Um, Cookie you’re a mess!”

I look down at my front and then back at Josh. “Yeah, well, so are you!”

The front door flies open and Pop comes barreling down the walkway. His face is flush and his hair is standing on end. “What in bloody hell (PUFF––PUFF) is going on at your school? I (PUFF) heard about an accident on the radio. I just saw a live shot on the television!”

“Hi Pop,” I say, showing him my grimy hands. “We’re fine, Char and Bill had an altercation, we’ll tell you all about it, but we need to clean up a little first.”

His eyes get really big. “Lord what…did the two of you fall down in a mud puddle?”

Josh and I head for the house.

He follows still huffing and puffing.

“Um...yeah as a matter of fact we did,” I answer, stepping up on the porch. My elbow is really starting to sting. “Pop, why are you so out of breath?”

 “When I saw that black car (PUFF) pull up (PUFF) I ran down the bloody stairs…almost broke my neck! Good Lord in heaven, I thought it was bad news.” Pop looks up at the sky and crosses himself. He hasn’t done that in ages. “Thank God you’re home in one piece.”

I reach for the door knob.

Pop yells, “STOP!”

We both jump and turn around.

“Remove those muddy shoes!” We kick off our shoes and Pop picks them up. “I’ll clean them off,” he says, pushing past us and going inside. “And hold on a second.”

Josh sets our backpacks on the floor and we stand in the foyer in our sock feet waiting for orders.

Pop turns to me. “After you clean up missy, meet Josh and me in the kitchen for dinner. And don’t dilly-dally putting on make-up and such! I want to hear all about this so called ‘altercation’.” Pop pivots toward Josh and gestures with his head. “Josh you can use the downstairs bathroom to clean up. There’s a stack of fresh towels on the shelf. Strip down to your skivvies and I’ll come back for your cloths. I’ll bring you a robe you can wear it while your cloths are in the wash.”

“Yes sir,” Josh says, going into the bathroom looking uncomfortable about stripping down to his skivvies.

“Chop-chop,” Pop barks at me and jump.

I take my backpack and head upstairs, relieved to be on home turf. I glance over the railing. Pop smiles up at me, and then heads to the laundry room with our nasty shoes.

Just under twenty minuets later, I push through the kitchen door wearing a big square Band-Aid on my elbow. The smells in the kitchen are heavenly. I’m wearing my oldest pair of jeans, and a white tee with Georgetown High Swim Team State Champions on the front. Comfort cloths. My freshly shampooed hair is damp. In my hip pocket is the paper with the scar design, I’d added the name I saw on the clipboard, Fredrik Koshechka, AKA FK, AKA Valentine. During my speedy shower and change of cloths, my mind spun with questions, two in particular: Where is Fredik Koshechka and what is the deal with Agent Smith’s scar.

Josh is sitting on the far side of the kitchen island writing in the little spiral notebook. He looks up blushing. He looks adorable in Pop’s plaid bathrobe. Walking past him on the way to the fridge, I pluck at his sleeve, briefly wondering if he is wearing anything underneath. He takes a sip of his Pepsi, and sets it down. I glance around. The little TV is on but the sound is off. There’s a Hank’s Hulking Trucks commercial on the screen that I’ve seen so many times I know it by heart.

“Um, where’s my dad?”

Josh’s eyes go to the laundry room door. “Hopefully getting my clothes out of the dryer.”

“Ah.” I yank open the fridge and get myself a Pepsi. I feel like a doper needing a fix.

—I know…I keep breaking my one-a-day regimen. I promise to get back on track when things settle down.

Right.

“Sexy,” I say, I jump up on the stool next to Josh and twist off the plastic cap checking inside to see if I won anything.

“Ya think?” He smiles and adjusts the robe at his lap looking uncomfortable.

“Excellent. I won a free liter of Pepsi.” I show him the inside of the cap and explain, “They’re always giving away free stuff.”

Josh just continues tapping his pen on the little notebook. He glances nervously past me at the kitchen door as if he’s willing Pop to appear with his clothes. Knowing Pop, he’s probably pressing Josh’s jeans.

“Josh, did you see that nasty scar on agent Smith’s face?” I shiver and rub my arms. “I think it was the Russian word for elephant.” I put the cap back on. “Oh, wait!” I say breathlessly, and take out the paper, unfold it and lay it between us on the counter. “Valentine’s nickname.”

Josh pick up the paper and looks at my artwork. He writes something in his little notebook.

I feel proud, having sketch word slash scar perfectly. “Josh, the guy in the elevator had “FK” embroidered on his leather glove.”

“Yeah, I found something about Agent Smith on the Internet. Josh flips to another page and reads, “It said that Agent Smith started working as a special agent back when Regan was president. Smith was captured by a coldblooded KGB double agent. As part of his interrogation technique, he liked to leave his mark in human flesh. Unfortunately, most of them didn’t make it out alive. To antagonize the CIA, the creep would send a photograph of his art work to his American superiors.”

My stomach does this little flip and I feel my face set in a grimace. “Okay, but the KGB has been disbanded since the end of the Cold War.”

“Supposedly.”

I shiver again. “Only a monster would carve the word elephant into a guy’s face like that?”

Josh shrugs. “Yeah.” He stares off into space a few minuets as if he’s thinking about something. I study his face trying to ignore the disgusting image my mind is concocting.

“What?” I ask finally.

“It’s gross Cookie, I don’t want you to be scared.”

“Too late. Tell me!” I reach over the bar and grab Josh’s shoulder making him face me.

He looks freaked.

I drop my hand and slam my fist on the countertop. “Please!”

“Well, while I was in the bathroom just now, Dad called me to see if I was okay.” He swallows, gestures over his shoulder, and then looks me in the eyes. “Cookie, they think the man following you is in fact the same face-carving-psycho X-KGB. Fredrik Koshechka. KGB was notorious for carving their nicknames into the flesh of captured American agents.” Josh looks up from his notebook. “They like to use hunting knives.”

I grimace.

“The ones with the jagged blades…” Josh’s voice trails off as he draws something on a clean page.

I rise up on my stool to see. “Слон. Elephant. Just like I wrote it.”

Josh’s eyes get really big and the color drains from his face. “Holly shit, Cookie!”

No biggie, but I’ve never heard Josh say the s-word.

“What now?” I ask, frowning at him.

Josh just shakes his head.

I hop off my stool, go over, and snatch up his notebook. I read over his notes about Agent Smith. “Fuuudge…” I catch myself and my hand goes up to my face. I realize my mouth is hanging open.

Our eyes lock. Josh has a very strange look on his face. Finally, his mouth opens and he says, “Your stalker is more dangerous than I thought.”

Pop comes bounding into the kitchen with Josh’s clothes neatly folded over his arm. A combination of fear and revelation makes me ball up my fist and punch Josh in the shoulder. “Cookie, why are you hitting Josh?”

Pop hands Josh his clothes. Looking relieved, he hugs the bundle to his chest with one arm.

I look from Pop to Josh and back. “We…um…”

“Hold that thought,” Josh says, hoping off his stool, gripping the robe together at his crotch with his free hand. “I’ll be right back!” Josh backs up and then practically runs out the kitchen door.

While Josh is down the hall changing, I excitedly fill Pop in on our findings regarding Fredrik Koshechka. Of course, he’s stunted and worried. I assure him that I’m safe in Agent Brody’s care by telling him a few details about Char going ballistic and the ride home with the secret service guys.

During this, Pop skirts around the kitchen showing his alarm with a lot of grimacing and “oh my lords”. He makes a pot of coffee then pulls out an array of food fit for a Royal feast. Suddenly starved, I stuff a slice of moist turkey breast in my mouth and struggle to open a big jar of bread and butter pickles. Still working on the jar lid, I swallow the bite and go over to the sink to run hot water on the pickle jar. Pop lifts the lid off the huge pot, bubbling on the stovetop and through a cloud of steam stirs the contents with a wooden spoon. “Why ya making so much Irish stew Pop?”

“It’s for the gang in the surveillance van,” he says chirpily. He replaces the lid then reaches over, takes the jar out of my hand, and pops it open. He gives it back. “Girly-girl!”

“Hey, I loosened it!”

Josh is back wearing his nice clean cloths…and a big frown.

Inside I am totally freaking out about how fast things are starting to unfold with the Valentine thingy and all, but I can’t help it—when I see creases in Josh’s jeans—I have to giggle. Josh shoots me a look and sits down on a stool. I sit next him. As a peace offering for making fun of his ironed jeans, I spear a pickle and hold the fork out at him. Still looking perplexed, he accepts the pickle. He bites the pickle looking off at nothing. Then Pop places a plate piled with German potato salad and a Dagwood sized bacon-turkey sandwich in front of both of us.

Josh’s frown turns into a big smile. “Thanks Mr. B!”

I pass him a fork and a folded cloth napkin then glance down at his knee. Did he re-injure it when he tackled me? Josh takes a big bite of potato salad and sees me looking at him. Before he assumes that I’m still busting him about his ironed jeans I ask, “You okay?”

I impale another pickle and nibble on it. “By the way…Pop knows everything.”

Josh nods and digs into his food.

Pop sets steaming bowls of stew next to our plates. “Unfortunately Lass, I will never know everything.”

The three of us discuss Pop’s day, Valentine AKA Fredrik Koshechka––the source of Agent Smith’s yucky scar––and of course Char and Billy’s escapade. We still don’t know why Char would do what she did.

Josh frowns deeply and gestures with the stubby little pickle. “I’ve come to the conclusion that something smells mighty fishy.”

Pop is stirring the stew again. He turns sideways, raises his furry red eyebrows at Josh. “Fishy?” He gestures at the big pot with the wooden spoon. “Irish stew doesn’t have fish in it.”

Josh sets his spoon down and his lips curl up in a smile. “I’m not referring to your stew sir.”

“So what is it Lad?” Pop replaces the lid and sets the ladle on a spoon rest then joins us, wiping his hands on the front of his white apron.

Josh hesitates. He looks at me and then at Pop. “Well...I don’t mean to bring up a sensitive issue...”

“Josh, just say whatever!”

“Um,” Josh continues sounding strange.

I put wipe my mouth and bug my eyes at Josh. “I’m so over the pussy-footing around. I want everything out in the open! It’s the only way we’re going to get to the bottom of this!”

“Okay here goes.” He looks over at Pop standing at the end of the island. “Mr. B, Cookie told me that because of some international law Mrs. Blakely’s casket had to be sealed shut when being transported...right?”

Pop and I nod in agreement. I’m like, why is he bringing that up?

“Anyway, after I leaned that, I asked my dad about the law. He said it was odd that you weren’t ever asked to identify the body. And really strange that you never laid eyes on her again. After hearing that, I set out to find out if there was in fact such a law. Dad said he wasn’t aware of any regulations concerning a seal casket, but it’s impossible to know about every law in America let alone foreign countries. He said he’d ask some of the attorneys that work with the MPD on international cases. He just called me. Not one person is aware of any special international directives concerning the transporting of a deceased American Federal employee back to the United States. Since Mrs. B case was not ordinary, there might’ve been special directives put in place.” Josh takes a folded paper out of his pocket and hands it to me. “I copied that off Gov.org.”

I unfold it. “Transporting unembalmed remains. Ewe.”

Pop says, “Read it out loud.”

“If the remains are not embalmed, the U.S. consular officer should alert U.S. Customs and the U.S. Public Health Service at point of entry in advance, faxing copies of the consular mortuary certificate, local death certificate (if available), affidavit of foreign funeral director, and a formal statement from competent foreign authorities stating that the individual did not die from a communicable disease. This statement generally is required even if the exact cause of death is unknown in order for unembalmed remains to enter the United States.” Pop holds out his hand and I pass him the paper. I ask Pop. “Would it make a difference if that person were a federal employee?”

“I don’t know love.” His eyes are on the paper. “Before we left our suit, Agent Werthoust had me sign a lot of papers without reading them.”

I look at Josh. He’s staring at his partially eaten sandwich as if he’s just lost his appetite. “Josh. What else did you find out?”

 “Um, I was just wondering if there was any chance Mrs. B’s body was…um—” Josh pauses.

I wait with baited breath.

He gulps then looks up searching our faces.

I roll my hand. “What Josh?”

Josh takes a bite of pickle and shakes his head. “Forget it.”

Pop places balled fists on his hips. “Just tell us what you know Lad.” He purses his lips and waits for Josh to go on.

 “Okay. Josh sets down the half-eaten pickle, wipes his fingers on his napkin, and then picks up his little notebook. “When I got home last night, I searched the different news sites on the Internet for stores about the Pentagon’s preliminary reports on the Agent Sheahan-Blakely case.” He flips through the pages and stops. His eyes drop to the page. “After reading through a bunch of paste and copy stories, I found an obscure video blip that came from the agency in Austria responsible for transporting Mrs. B’s remains. I confirmed this fact by calling the Overseas Security Advisory Council (OSAC). The person there told me to call the American Embassy in Vienna.” Josh takes a breath and looks over to see our reaction. “Anyway, to make a long story short, they emailed me a PDF file of Mrs. B’s entire report.” Josh gestures over his shoulder. “I printed it. It’s in my satchel.”

I’m amazed and impressed by Josh’s quickness in knowing what to look for. I push his shoulder. “Go get it. I want to read every word.” Josh leaves and I shoot a look at Pop. “Josh is a genius!”

“Ah. That he is.” Pop sips some coffee.

I nibble my sandwich and mull over what Josh just told us. I picture Pop bent over a stack of official papers. Agent Werthoust demanding he sign them so they can transport Eva’s remains. Then it dawns on me. “Pop, Worty had you sign Mom over to the authorities without knowing it.”

Josh bounds through the door with the report in hand. He returns to his stool and tells us, “The SAC (Special Agent in Charge) Agent Werthoust’s signature is on the forms. Werthoust declared all details of her death be deemed classified, as you guys already know. The US Marshall’s office reported that after an autopsy was performed by a special medical team—also under Agent Werthoust’s authority—her body was incased in a hermetic container then flown to Washington D.C. to be turned over to the family for proper burial. This is where it gets really—”

“UH!” I interject angrily, cutting Josh off. “If Agent Werthoust turns out to be responsible in any way shape or form…” I stop there not sure what I would do. “Grrr! I’m soo glad the President kicked him off the case and put Ivan in!”

Josh looks at me.

“I need to let off some steam. Sorry, continue.” I put my elbows on the counter and rub my forehead with my fingers.

“Well, a geek friend––who considers himself a Grey Hat, made me swear he remain anonymous—showed me how to hack into the classified OSAC files.” Josh sees our eyebrows shoot up on our foreheads and holds up a flat hand. “Don’t worry. My Dad was with me. He helped me accomplish this.” Josh flips the pages of the notebook and stops. “After breaking into OSAC computer system, I finally figure out the passwords and came across a short report dated December twenty-sixth that simply said ‘FBI Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely died in service to her nation.”

“That’s it?” I stomp over to the refrigerator, yank open the door and whip out another bottle of Pepsi. Holding it up, I offer Josh another too.

Josh shakes his head “no” then says softly, “I was just going to suggest I bring you copies of everything tomorrow for your records. That’s if you want a set.” He hesitates.

Suddenly I feel weak. I plop back down on my stool. My hands are shaking. I can hardly find enough strength to twist off the top of the Pepsi.

Josh says, “It will help if you ever want to have her exhumed.”

“Uh—that is so gross.”

Pop doesn’t say anything.

Josh takes my bottle and twists off the cap. He checks it for a winner and shows me that it says “Better luck next time.” He puts it back on and passes me the bottle. Josh looks at Pop and says softly, “Mr. B, my dad thinks a further autopsy might help answer some of your questions.”

Pop hisses, “Mother Mary. I don’t know…”

I sit there feeling like I’m in a tunnel being sucked back to that morning. Fast forward back to the kitchen. A little voice says pay attention.

—I’m tired but also wired. I feel like a human vibrator.

Could be because you only had like, four hours of sleep in the last...um...two days?! Go to bed and talk to Josh about it tomorrow.

—No! It’s crucial I hear this!

Okay, but how are you going to pass your classes this year if you never sleep?

—Don’t cha know? I’m a tough Cooke.

I feel Josh’s eyes on me and realize he’s waiting for my thoughts. “Um, sorry. I’m just trying to absorb all this.” I sit up straighter and study Pop’s face. He looks a little freaked but nothing compared to last night when we told him what we found out about Grandma and Grandpa Sheahan. I need to stop worrying. “Um, what do you think Pop?”

“I think Wayne is right. We have do what ever it takes to get to the bottom of this.”

Josh says. “Okay, you can call Dad whenever and let him know your decision.”

I’m overtaken by a big yawn. Focus Cookie, focus!

Josh turns to the second page of the report. “The Pentagon’s reports don’t say exactly where the autopsy took place. However, I did a word search for ‘coroner’ mentioned within the docket. I located an addendum memo addressed to the Pentagon from a Coroner’s office in Vienna.” He pauses and looks at Pop. “Were you aware that her body was transported to Vienna before returning to the states?”

Pop shakes his head.

Josh goes on, “Moreover, why would a coroner travel all the way from Vienna, Austria to the resort to perform her autopsy?”

“Are you asking why didn’t the police or Agent Werthoust call a local M.E.?”

Josh nods.

I blow out a long breath. “Great. Another unanswered question. This gets more complicated by the minute.” I gesture for Josh to continue.

“At any rate, a Doctor Ari Helmut signed the report that probably has details of what was found during her autopsy. But for some reason they’re redacted.” He shows us a form. The filled in spaces are completely blacked out. “Doctor Helmut’s secretary said she personally shipped copy of Mrs. B’s death certificate and an unredacted autopsy report––with the body. Here’s the rub. She sent an email with an ISL form attached. The International Sanitation Law (ISL). There was also a postscript.” Josh flips to the next page and points at the ISL form. He says, “The first checked box indicates that the casket must be sealed before leaving foreign land. It doesn’t say why. All papers are signed with the initials W.W.”

Pop reaches for the report and Josh hands it over. “Doctor Helmut huh?” Pop mutters as he digs in the junk drawer, “I’d like to talk to the bloke.” He takes out a cheap pair of readers and rests them on the end of his nose. He rubs his chin and scans the report in silence.

I glace at Josh. He uses the break in conversation to devour the rest of his sandwich. He seems to have gotten his appetite back. Right now, the thought of eating turns my stomach. I look down at my finger and realize I’ve been chewing on my cuticle like its beef jerky. I toss down the last of my second Pepsi as if it’s an ice cold beer. I put down the bottle and sit on my hands. “If Mom’s not buried in Oak Hill where is she?”

Josh shrugs and scoops up the last of his potato salad.

Pop flips through a few more pages and stops. Then he hands Josh the report. “What’s this about a press release?”

Josh scans the page Pop is referring to. “Oh yeah. The day before yesterday, Agent Werthoust wrote a press release he planned to read before or after the President canned him. He never got a chance. The President thought it better he saved it for a later date. Enough negative media attention. Anyway, for what it’s worth, the Pentagon gave a statement says ‘everyone in the Intel agencies who loved and admired Eva will miss her greatly. However, we regret that at this time, due to National Security, the Pentagon must remain mute on the details of Agent Blakely’s untimely death. No surprise. He declined taking questions from the press. Again citing national security would be at risk if the Sheahan-Blakely file were to be open to the public.” Josh puts down the notebook and looks at me.

I place my hands on the sides of my face. “Shock face!”

Pop frowns. “Cookie and I watched that press briefing.”

“It so frustrating! The Pentagon spokes people always clam up. Why do they even bother talking to the public?”

Pop looks at Josh over the top of his specks. “I have my copies in my safe. Want to see them?”

Josh looks hopeful. “Well yeah, maybe yours will have an address or phone number of an American Medical Examiner.”

Pop goes to the den.

Josh and I sit in silence waiting.

Pop comes back with a large manila envelope. He slides out the contents and hands them to Josh. I look over it with him. There’s no address or phone numbers. Just International Sanitation Law typed across the top and a list of options on how a corpse is to be transported to its next destination. Josh keeps searching the papers.

“Nothing!” I concur, pushing off the bar and take my seat.

Josh gives them back to Pop. “Nada.”

“Zip!” I smile tightly. “Hey, so what. At least we know that Mom had an autopsy in Austria. Still it sort of feels like we’re back to peg one.” I’m temped to add that I don’t see the point in finding out this. We already knew all of the other stuff about the sealed coffin yada-yada.” Ewe. I button my lip and wait to see what Pop will say. I don’t want Josh think I’m unappreciative of all his hard work.

“Precisely!” Pop says, returning his papers to the envelope. “Same bloody runaround! So what’s point?” He tosses the packet on the phone counter and the reading glasses into the junk drawer shutting it a little too hard. I jump. Pop has a troubled look on his face as he places a stack of big white bowls and folded linen napkins on the cart, and then toddles over to the open dishwasher and gathers soup spoons out of the basket. He sets his face in a frown and picks up Josh’s notebook again. Pop grumbles shaking his head. After a pregnant pause, he slaps it on the counter edge. “You have it all laid out. But we have to face facts. We’ve hit a bloody wall! The Feds will never tell us anything. They’re playing Eva’s investigation close to the vest—nobody is talking to any body––not even the press.” He frowns at Josh. “Sorry you lost sleep working for nothing.”

For the next minuet or so nobody speaks.

Josh fidgets with our three Pepsi bottles lining up like a toy soldiers. I get the feeling he has more to tell us but he’s hesitating because we’re freaking out. I need to chill. I smile at him and pick up the empty plastic bottles, toss them in the recycle bin, and wash my hands in the sink. Everything inside me is screaming keep going. “Pop we can’t give up!”

He tosses me a glance.

I dry my hands on a dishtowel, hang it up, and march over next to Josh. I grab his notebook and scan over his notes. I mutter, “We’re either not seeing something or you’re holding back to…what? protect my feelings?”

Looking hurt, Josh wipes his mouth and gestures at the notebook. “No! I was hoping the Pentagon report would confirm that Mrs. B was taken for a second autopsy in the states.”

This flies over my head. I’m tired. I fly off the handle when I’m tired.

I wave my arms in the air wildly. “Josh, come on! You did all this research and all you found out is––” I stop and blink at him. “I’m thinking we’re missing the boat here. Josh, the note from Valentine says she’s alive for Pete’s sake!” I start cleaning up our dishes. I need to keep busy. “Who cares about a stupid autopsy?” I look at Josh. “Why would it even matter if the docs are phony?” I can tell Pop is listening to us.

Smiling wide, Josh puts his fingertips together.  “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

He didn't. I put our dishes in the dishwasher and close the door. “I’m listening.”

“Well...” Josh flips to another page in his notebook as if he has something earth shattering to reveal. “I kept digging and found out that in Austria if the death of any government contract employee occurs in a hotel or any business, a local physician must be notified within hours.” He pauses. “Cookie, you said that after you fainted you were treated in the resort’s clinic by an on staff doctor and nurse. I’m thinking that if we can contact them they may know where your mom was taken if her murder happened on-site. It may be a long shot but what do we have to lose?”