CHAPTER FOURTY-TWO ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

After school, I come home to an empty house and go in my room. I fire up my iron to touch up some wrinkled cloths before packing them. In the interim, I take out my journal and write. Thursday August 31: I’m a little bummed. Josh is out with his father tonight so I won’t be seeing him until we get back from Florida. I miss him already. I wish Pop were home so we could discuss our trip. I don’t even know where we are going first—Universal Studios or Disney World––

My cell goes off and I put my journal aside and pick it up to see who’s calling. Shock. Char is calling moi?

“Hi Char.” I tuck my cell in the crook of my neck and start ironing my new cotton blouse.

“Hey, oh…wow…I’m surprised you answered…your, um cell.” I didn’t see her or Billy at school, but with everything going on I didn’t expect to. I must say I’m surprised she’s calling me. She says, “I mean it’s what…only one o’clock...you usually don’t answer your cell until after swimming.” She sounds spacey like she just woke up or drunk. I hope she’s not drinking in her condition. “You’re either skipping or you’re breaking school rules. Fess up my lil friend.”

I remind her. “Today was a half day at school…because of Labor Day weekend? Therefore, no swimming practice—for the third day in a row. Aren’t you happy? We have a four-day holiday. Yippee!”

Char says, “Right… I always wonder why they don’t wait until after Labor Day to start the school year. Seriously, we never really accomplish anything the first week of school except…” Char loses her train of thought. I hear her blow out a long breath. “Anyways, I was just going to leave a message wishing you bon voyage.”

“Thanks, um, so how are you doing?” I ask, folding my new outfits and place them in my suitcase.

She laughs. “Don’t ask. Look, I have to go do some stuff.” Char just hangs up.

“Okay. Well, bye.” What else can I say?

I put four disposable cameras and Mom’s binoculars into my new straw bag I plan to use as a beach bag, and toss my boring one-piece Speedo into the suitcase. After July, you can’t buy swimwear in D.C. I’m counting on Florida shops to be stocked full of bikinis. My dream is to buy a red one—or several—at Ron Jon’s Surf Shop in Cocoa Beach. I finally finish packing for Florida.

I strain my ear. The phone in the hallway is ringing. I run down the stairs and hear Pop leaving a message: “Cookie, I called awhile ago and left a message on your cell. Where are you? I thought swim practice was canceled. I left you a note I on the kitchen counter. I’m working out some issues with the bridezilla’s mother. He mumbles something about a family Crawfish etouffee recipe then says I’ll call back later Bye-bye.”

Now that he’s in the catering bus, I’ll have to get used to him being away at night. The cuckoo-coo clock says it’s almost six. I push through the kitchen door. I pick up an envelope propped against on the island. My name is scrawled on the front. I rip it open and unfold the paper. Hi Love, in the refrigerator is a plate for of scraps for Beggar. Be home soon love, Pop

I laugh and cross over to the door and peer out. It’s getting dark so I flip on the patio light. The ash gray cat is on the back patio sitting on his wide haunches licking his paw. I tap on the door and call out, “Hey fatso!”

He ignores me.

I open the refrigerator and stare at the sparse contents. We’ll be gone four days so Pop cleaned the fridge. Probably donated all the food to a shelter. A small plastic saucer covered with plastic wrap is piled high with chicken chunks. The only other items are four packs of bottled water, a bag of apples, a six-pack of boxed grape juice, and a case of my beloved Pepsi. Thank you. I grab the saucer, an apple, and a Pepsi—my first one today. The food court at school shuts down for holidays.

I bite into the apple, get rid of the plastic wrap and carry the saucer outside. I remove the apple from my mouth. “Here ya go Beggar boy, chow time!” While the cat eats, I eat my apple and glance around the shadowy yard. Even though I’m sure, the agents are watching over our house, it’s still spooky being home alone. A shiver runs through me. I crouch petting Beggar as he finishes up. “Have to fend for your self for a couple of days chubby boy.” Beggar starts licking himself. I go back inside and bolt lock the backdoor. I glance around. The house is too quiet. I flip on the little TV and turn it to the local news station hoping to catch reports on either on Mom or the deal in the school parking lot. I glance at the chef clock. It’s 6:23. Sipping my Pepsi, I perch on a stool.

“Selling pet garments has become a million dollar business,” says a reporter with short blond hair and a big smile. Sitting next to her is a lady holding up a tiny dog wearing a bikini and big sunglasses. “Labor Day Weekend attire for your pampered pet, it isn’t just about humans anymore.”

“Awe...how cute!”

Our next guest is known for his Creative, award-winning cuisine—I am sincerely honored to have Christopher Blakely with us today. But we Washingtonians know and love him as Ireland’s celebrated chef C.A.B.! The dog lady walks off set and Pop waves at the camera as he wheels out a silver cart full of food. He looks so professional in his chef’s uniform.

“Oh my gosh!” I grab the remote and raise the volume.

“Welcome to the “The Buzz around D.C. segment.” He takes a seat on the set across from the lady reporter. “Christopher, I understand you will be in charge of catering the West wedding taking place next week.

Smiling ear-to-ear, Pop rubs his hands together. “That’s correct, I’m happy to say that I am officially back in business.”

 She tastes one of the appetizers and moans. “Outstand and sinful. Looks like our whole studio audience will get to sample some of your gourmet canapés and appetizers.” She looks at the camera. “Folks in the Metro D.C. area...if want the your party, wedding, fund raiser—or whatever have you—catered by the best...you’d better book with Chef C.A.B.’s Catering Company, ASAP—before he’s all booked up!” She nods enthusiastically. “I know I am!”

I shout at the TV, “Way to go—that plug should get us a few thousand jobs!”

“The handsome, up, and coming Senator, Ethan Alexander West and his fiancée Mary Bess Rothschild will be holding their wedding reception here at the International Trade Center.

 While the reporter talks, Pop stands by the cart passing out samples to the line of people filing by on the television set.

“Mary Bess is the youngest daughter of Mayor Jacques Louis Rothschild, of New Orleans. They were on our morning show. Mary Bess is a former Miss. Universe and a member of Republicans for Black Empowerment (RBE). The couple met at the Young Republican Convention and the rest of their story is a tabloids reporter’s dream. And can you believe it? Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre are actually in the wedding party—”

“Get out!” That should be a fun reception. I wonder if I’m allowed to get autographs. They go to the stock market segment and I turn off the TV and head upstairs to scope out the Internet for shops in Orlando, and change my ringtone. I download “Ain't That Unusual” by the Goo-Goo Dolls ringtone and mess around looking at different style bikinis until my sore elbow starts throbbing. I turn on my stereo and slide in a Beach Boys CD then up in my window seat with my journal and Beal’s photographs. I pause to look out at the murky sky outside my window, and pray for good weather in Florida. The forecast is supposed to be sunny and humid, but it’s hurricane season...so you know what that means. I rest my sore arm on a pillow and write some more under today’s entry.

After I bonked my arm yesterday, I passed out and slid into the kitchen floor. When I came to, Josh was standing so close I thought he was about to administer mouth-to-mouth. He noticed that whenever I get nervous or upset I start hyperventilating. He thinks that’s why I passed out. Funny, I never knew that about myself. I think the stress is what made me faint. Anyway, Pop took Josh home a little while later and I completely forgot to show them the dark figure in the photos of Char’s crash.

I hear my cell phone play the new ringtone for first time. I jump up, dance over to my desk and pick up my phone off my bedside table. Yippie, its Josh! “Wassup buttercup,” I say happily.

“Not much. I just called to wish you and your dad a totally safe and awesome trip!”

“Pop’s not here but you can wish me one...oh, wait...you just did! I thought you were out with your dad tonight.”

“He’s grabbing a quick nap first. He’s been burning the candle at both ends.”

“Ah. Because of moi?”

Josh laughs. “Yeah. I’ve been on my computer the last hour researching former Russian KGB and GRU agents. Guess what I found—”

“Um, Josh?”

“Sorry, I know...you said that you needed a break from all this.”

Josh catches on fast. “Thanks. I don’t mean to be ungrateful for all of your help, really. I just want to think about sun and fun for the next few days. I’ll bring you back a souvenir...how about some Mickey Mouse ears?”

Josh laughs. “Cool, I’d love it!”

“You deserve so much more.”

“Well...Cookie, think about me while you’re riding the waves. I’m so used to being around you lately it feels weird being apart. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Okay. How should I take that? I ask, “Want me to call you from Florida?”

Josh says, “You better… Eh...my dad’s calling me. Peace out!”

“Bye.”  I click off and set my phone down on top of Beal’s envelope. “Forget about Valentine!” I pick up the envelope and fling it across the room. I need a break. I put my head back and sing, “Surf City here I come. Surf City gonna have some fun!”

 I fall asleep. I wake from a dream of Mom in that cage calling to me. “Where is she?” Half asleep, I get up to go the bathroom. On the way back, I notice Pop’s bedroom door is open. I peek in, his bed is still made. I look at his bedside clock. It’s almost midnight. Why isn’t he home yet?

What if Pop’s been in an accident? Horrifying visions flash through my mind.

—Get a grip...you’re losing it Cookie.

Right. He’s okay. I would know.

I go downstairs to look out the living room window and my heart stops. Fredrik Koshechka is standing in the middle of the front yard. I jump backwards almost falling. I’ve seen enough movies to know that my situation warrants a call for help.

I find my footing and snatch up the receiver off the phone on the table in the hall. Panting, I punch in 9-1-1 and try to catch my breath. I hold the receiver to my ear, my hand is shaking. Then run around the first floor in the dark house, locking windows, doors, and turning on every light. If Pop was home, the lights would already be on. Where are Agent Smith and Markowitz? I peer out the window. The van is out there, but I don’t want to go outside. “How do I alert them?” I jump up and down waving my arms.

The line is dead. I pound on the phone. Frantic, I drop the receiver, fly up the stairs flipping on lights, and grab my cell punching 9-1-1.

“Is this an emergency?” A woman with a professional tone asks me.

“Uh, yes, I mean I think so.” I hesitate wondering what I’m supposed to say. Personally—until tonight—I’ve never ever called emergency service.

“What is the nature of the emergency?”

“Um, (I swallow) there’s a man—a big man—standing in our front yard! What should I do?” I’m holding my cell phone so tightly that my bandaged hand has begun to ache and sweat. I quickly switch the phone to my other hand and rub my palm on my jeans. This hurts my elbow.

“Where are you?”

“At home…upstairs…alone! I know him. It’s Fredrik Koshechka. It’s a long story.”

“What is your name?”

 “Cookie...Cookie Blakely.” I tell her and creep down the stairs. It feels like I’m treading water. I step into the living room and the stupid coo-coo bird comes out unexpectedly and starts announcing midnight. I jump about a foot off the floor and spin around.

—The operator is talking.

“What?”

“Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

I glance down at the front of my shirt. “No. I’m okay, just scared,” I say, clutching the phone even tighter, my elbow doesn’t hurt anymore. I must be numb with fear. I scoot across the living-room floor and plaster myself to the wall by the front window. “To be safe, I turned on every light and locked all the doors and windows.”

“What, do you want brownie points?”

“Huh?” What did she just ask me?

“Cookie, can you describe the suspect? Did you see his face?”

“Um.” I place a shaky hand against the curtain, take a deep breath, and slowly push the curtain aside—just a sliver. “He’s gone.” Now I’m not so sure it was a person, it might’ve been just a shadow.

“So, did you just imagine you saw a man?”

The front yard is empty. I turn my head left and right. Nothing. I press my cheek to the glass to see if anyone. “I think he’s standing on the front porch. It’s shrouded in darkness; I can’t tell if the shadows are...”

The operator asks, “Cookie is the front door is dead bolted?”

“I don’t know.” My mind races and fear paralyzes me. I let go of the curtain and press my back against the living room wall trying to muster up the nerve to dash to the foyer and check the front door. I freaked out so bad that now I can’t remember if I checked the front door.

 “You need to make sure the door is locked.”

What if Valentine bursts in just as I’m approaching the door? If he has a gun or knife, I’m toast! If I don’t lock the door I’m toast!

“Check it.”

I need to hide. My eyes dart around the room. There’s no place that he couldn’t find me in seconds. My feet are glued to the floor. “I-I can’t catch my breath…I feel like I’m going to puke...or worse faint.”

“Cookie, listen to me. Try to calm down, I can hear you hyperventilating. Slow your breathing. Listen. An officer is in route to your house.”

“Thank you!” I gasp and tears spring to my eyes. I find myself standing in the foyer staring at the front door, without knowing how I got there.

“I want you to stay on the line with me. Trust me someone should be there any moment.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about the man you saw. Was he light or dark skinned?”

“It was too dark, I couldn’t see his face. However, I know that he's Russian. He was wearing a long dark coat and a hat. He was just standing out there like a statue. It’s weird. I know who he is. He is Fredrik Koshechka an ex-KGB guy.”

“Okay. Listen Cookie. If you can, go make sure all exterior doors are locked with deadbolts. I know you said you already did so but it’s important to check them again.”

The front door looks wavy. I reach for the knob and it twists right and left. I watch in sheer terror, trembling uncontrollably. “Oh no!” I whisper. He-he’s trying to get inside!” He pounds on the door. “Please help me!” I scream backing away from the door. “He’s pounding on the door. He’s trying to get in the house!” I realize the deadbolt must be in place. After Ivan said for us to deadbolt the door, I guess I got into the habit of locking it without thinking. Turning, I dash into the living room and seize the fireplace poker, again without planning to. He bangs on the door again and calls my name through the door.

“Cookie!” More banging. “Cookie...hello? Are you in there…Cookie?” A loud muffled voice comes from the other side of the door and he pounds on the door again. I hold the poker out in front of me, ready to impale whoever comes through the door. Someone is shouting.

“Help me!”

The woman’s voice in my ear shouts, “LISTEN TO ME COOKIE! An officer is at your front door.”

“No way,” I argue. “It’s HIM! It’s Valentine!” The banging on the door becomes more persistent. “Oh my god, someone is trying to knock the door down!” I scream, but nothing comes out. My throat has completely closed up. I have to defend myself. With a death grip on the poker, I skirt along the living room wall and use the poker to push aside the curtain again.

Outside, flashing red and blue lights fill the front yard and bounce off the wet black pavement. I cringe. The neighbors are gathered out on the sidewalk pointing at our house.

“Oh shoot!”

A voice in my ear shouts, “Sweetie you’d better open that door before the officers knock it down!”

Now I hear a familiar voice shouting my name.

“Okay.”

Still gripping the fireplace poker and the cell phone tightly against my ear I move into the foyer and squint through the peephole.

“Josh?”

I lean the poker in the corner under the light switch, suck in a deep breath, and unlock the deadbolt then quickly step back as the door swings open with a bang. Josh grabs me and hugs me. Over Josh’s shoulder I see his dad on the sidewalk talking to a clump of neighbors—hopefully telling them to go home and MYOB.

Holding me at arms length, Josh looks me up and down and says. “Cookie, are you all right?”

I nod and open my mouth to ask if they caught Valentine, but Josh mashes my face into his shoulder while hugging me even harder. Josh says, “I freaked when my dad got the four-fifty-nine call and the emergency dispatch operator said it was you!

I can hardly breathe. I put my hands on his chest and push back so I can breathe. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Did they get him? Did they get Valentine?”

Josh looks stunned. “He was here? Where the hell are Smith and Markowitz?”

“I think so. I don’t know.”

A far-away voice says, “Hello? Hello?” We both look down at my cell phone still in my hand. It’s the nine-one-one operator’s voice. Josh gently removes my cell from my grip and confirms to the concerned operator that I am safe then clicks the end button. My ring tone immediately plays “Ain’t That Unusual” by the Goo-Goo Dolls. Josh looks at the screen and holds it up for me to see. Pop is on the line.

I take my cell. “Pop, I was worried about you!”

“I called on our land line. The phone company told me it was out of service. What’s wrong with the phone?” Pops asks, sounding tired and exasperated.”

Officer O’Dell steps up on the porch and says, “We’ve checked the premises and didn’t find anyone.”

“Hang on a sec Pop...I need to talk to Officer O’Dell.” I hear him ask, “Wayne O’Dell? Why is he there?” I frown and ask, “Did I imagine the whole thing?”

Officer O’Dell shakes his head and says, “I don’t think so Cookie…”

Officer O’Dell pauses to check his notes in his hand and Josh pipes in, “One of your neighbors may have seen your prowler though, she was slightly hysterical and spoke in rapid Spanish.”

“Daisy Rodriguez,” I offer. “She very colorful. Daisy is a nice lady but…”

“At any rate, Mrs. Rodriguez kept referring to someone named Hernando, a negro, Humphrey Bogart, and Casa Blanca. Then another neighbor, a Mr. Dobbs, stepped in and translated the best he could. He said Daisy was telling us that she was out walking her Chihuahua Hernando just before midnight and saw a dark man walking ahead of her on the sidewalk. She stood in the shadows watching him walk to the corner.” Wayne pivots and extends his arm. Josh and I crane to see where he is pointing. “A few minuets later, a taxi pulled up and the man got in and the taxi drove away.” Officer O’Dell looks flustered. “So, I presume Daisy Rodriguez saw an Afro-American man who resembled Humphrey Bogart in Casa Blanca?”

I make a face. Afro-American? Um, no way. Daisy is confused. My prowler was definitely white. Maybe she was referring to the black hat and coat he was wearing. Officer O’Dell, I’m sure it was Fredrik Koshechka,” I say with some certainty.

“Ah.”

Pop’s voice sounds like mouse yelling on my cell. “I’m sorry Officer O’Dell, can you hold on a sec?” He nods and I put my cell phone to my ear, “Pop, where are you?” Nothing. “He’s clicked off.”

We all look over as Pop pulls into the driveway and parks the van. He jumps out and rushes over. I meet Pop and we hug.

“What in blue blazes?”

I turn my head to the side to look at Josh. “Tell him.”

Josh looks at Pop. “There was a prowler standing in your front yard.”

Pop’s expression is a mixture of shock and fear. He looks at me.

“Josh and his dad came.”

Officer O’Dell says, “Christopher is it okay if we come inside? We need to get some more information.”

The neighbors are watching.

“Prowler?” Pop echoes still trying to wrap his head around the scene. He and Wayne shake hands and I follow them inside.

Josh brings up the rear.

I whisper over my shoulder to him, “I’m still confused about the Afro-American part.”

Officer O’Dell shuts the door and his shoulder radio calls him. We stand in the foyer until he signs off. We all shift to the living room as he explains, “Agent Smith and Agent Markowitz spotted your prowler and took off after the taxi. They were wondering about the heavy-set Hispanic woman in the street trying to wave them down. Apparently, the two agents were on a high-speed chase all the way to the Regan Airport where they lost the taxi in heavy congestion surrounding a multi-vehicle accident caused by the rain slick roads. When I leave here, I need to meet them at the station to set up roadblocks and put out an APB. But first, if you are up to it, I need Cooke to give me her statement.”

“I’m fine. I’m just glad the press didn’t show.”

Officer O’Dell, “The FBI has us working on a secure line to keep unwanted ears away.”

In the next the few minutes, I do my best to give them an accurate account of what I (think) I saw. “I’m not one hundred percent sure it was Valentine, but who else could it be?”

Officer O’Dell says, “Well, we should hear something soon.”

Before he leaves with his dad, Josh bear hugs me and says, “Be careful in Florida.”

My last waking thought is Ivan is right, Koshechka’s a slippery bastard! No, wait—I lie—my last waking thought is Josh’s hugs.