How Spy I Am (8 page)

I peeled my tongue
away from the roof of my dry mouth. “I’d prefer to be relocated,
please.”

“Not an option,” Stemp
said. “All the paperwork is complete for your new identity, and in
any case, Sirius Dynamics is the only installation in Canada that
contains the necessary technology to support your project. I
explained all of this in our last interview.”

“I… uh… I… missed that
part…” My mind spun its wheels frantically. Come to think of it, I
did vaguely remember Stemp’s lips still moving after he’d dropped
the bomb about Kane and my car and my reported death.

Shit, shit, shit!

“What, darlin’?”
Hellhound’s impatient rasp jarred my attention back to the room.
“What’s wrong?”

I pulled away to stare
at him, feeling as though the blood had been drained from my body
and replaced with water.

I couldn’t even say
it. I handed him the paper.

His gaze zigzagged
rapidly down the page, and he let out a bellow of laughter. “Jesus
Christ, that’s fuckin’ perfect! Literally!”

He fell back on the
couch, still laughing. At last, he struggled upright again, gasping
and wiping his eyes. “My dream’s come true, darlin’. I always
wanted to bone a porn star.”

“
What
?”
Richardson snatched the paper out of his hand and did some
speed-reading of his own, his mouth slowly dropping open as he
scanned.

I turned to meet
Stemp’s inscrutable gaze. “There’s no way this will work,” I
implored. “I’m pushing fifty, for chrissake. Nobody wants to see a
woman my age in a porn movie.”

“You underestimate
yourself,” he replied.

Before I could decide
whether that was complimentary or insulting, he continued, “In
fact, you already have a dedicated following on the internet. Or, I
should say, Arlene Cherry has a dedicated following.”

“Oh, please,” I
begged, ignoring Hellhound’s quaking bulk beside me. “Cherry?
Seriously? At my age?”

A snicker burst out of
Hellhound.

Stemp shrugged. “I
didn’t make up the name. Lawrence Harchman did.”

Revolting
comprehension filled me. “The red cherry-scented leather. Arlene
Cherry
. I’m going to hunt down that slime-sucking little
shitweasel and twist his tiny, pathetic dick into a pretzel-”

Stemp interrupted,
“That’s an excellent idea. Minus the assault, of course. It would
be very helpful in establishing your cover…”

“Fuck that!” I
rocketed to my feet. “Fuck him…”

“You already did
that,” Stemp said, and this time there was no mistaking the evil
gleam in his eye. “In fact, you did it in some extremely varied and
creative ways. I was impressed.”

“I
didn’t
!” My
face was hot enough to melt every snowflake inside a two-mile
radius. “You know those videos were fake, he’s such a little
slimeball…”

“Red cherry-scented
leather?” Hellhound broke in. “Hey, darlin’, ya been holdin’ out on
me. When do I get to see it?”

“I don’t own any,” I
snapped. “Harchman is a disgusting little zit on the ass-end of the
world-”

“Nevertheless,” Stemp
interrupted. Apparently tired of tormenting me, he addressed us in
matter-of-fact tones. “The official story for Ms. Kelly’s friends
and acquaintances is that Ms. Kelly drove down to Calgary to visit
you, Helmand, and while she was there she received a message that
her aunt had been taken ill in Victoria. Ms. Kelly rushed to the
airport and flew to Victoria, where she remained for several days,
unaware that her car had been stolen and involved in a fatality
accident. By the time she returned to Calgary and discovered the
case of mistaken identity, her funeral was already over.”

He nodded to me. “Ms.
Kelly, I’m sure you’ll enjoy many happy reunions as a result. In
the process of those reunions, you will ask your friends to keep
the news of your survival inside their immediate group, because
while in Victoria, you were mistaken by the media for an internet
porn star. Understandably, you don’t wish to attract further
attention.”

“Can’t we come up with
something else instead?” I pleaded. “Can’t we say I’m being
threatened by my ex-husband and I have to lie low or
something?”

“No,” Stemp said.
“That would be too easy to disprove, and it would raise questions
as to why you don’t involve the police. Besides, the wheels are
already in motion. Even as we speak, the news media is seizing upon
a story about Arlene Cherry, an internet star with a sizeable
underground following of middle-aged men who…” he cleared his
throat. “…enjoy voyeuristic amateur porn.”

“Ms. Cherry…” Stemp
inclined his head in my direction. “…is known to the police as a
small-time con artist whose real name is Arlene Widdenback. She has
a few minor convictions and has been incarcerated on three separate
occasions for fraud.”

I tried to close my
ears to the spluttering sounds of mirth emanating from Hellhound’s
direction while Stemp continued, “The media will report that Ms.
Cherry, or rather, Ms. Widdenback, has recently been identified
living in the small town of Silverside, Alberta, using the identity
of one Aydan Kelly.”

I knotted both hands
in my hair and sank back down onto the sofa in despair. Stemp
raised his voice slightly to talk over my groan.

“The real Aydan Kelly,
of course, is recently dead, and all official records will indicate
that. Ms. Kelly, your assets are now being held in a numbered
company, and you will still have full access to them through our
system. However, all publicly accessible records will indicate that
you are Arlene Widdenback. You will be issued appropriate
identification in that name tomorrow.”

I emerged from the
shelter of my hands to beg Stemp one last time. “Isn’t there any
other option?”

“No. This is the
best-case scenario, since the videos pre-date Aydan Kelly’s
official death and the woman in the videos is unquestionably you.
If they’re suspicious, Fuzzy Bunny will be looking for identities
that begin to show activity around the time you died.”

Stemp gave me an
almost-sympathetic look. “You may, of course, publicly deny that
you are Arlene Widdenback. In fact, I encourage you to do so, as
vociferously as possible. Controversial media coverage will serve
to keep you in the public eye and fuel our disinformation campaign,
all helping to assure Fuzzy Bunny that you are actually Arlene
Cherry, not Aydan Kelly. God bless the media.”

He gave me a short,
mocking bow. “Ms. Widdenback, it’s a pleasure to make your
acquaintance. Please report to Sirius Dynamics tomorrow morning for
your complete briefing and dossier.” He turned to Richardson.
“Please return her weapon before she leaves tonight.” He strode
out, leaving a gaping silence behind him.

I collapsed slowly
forward to bury my face in the couch. “Somebody, please, kill me
now,” I implored the sofa cushions.

The silence stretched,
and I suspected both men were using the time to adjust their faces
to appropriate expressions of sympathy. I didn’t rush them.

Eventually, I felt
Hellhound’s hands on my shoulders. “Come on, darlin’, it ain’t that
bad.”

I could still hear the
smile in his voice, and I groaned as I let him lift me away from my
fervent communion with the couch.

“You’re right. It’s
not that bad. It’s much, much worse.” I hid my face against his
chest, avoiding Richardson’s eyes. I wasted a few moments willing
my heart to stop but it kept beating away, cheerfully oblivious to
my humiliation.

“Aw, come on now.”
Arnie raised my chin and smiled down at me. “Don’t worry, darlin’,
your friends know that fraud an’ porn stuff ain’t true, an’ ya
don’t hafta give a shit what anybody else thinks.”

I blew out a long
breath and thumped my forehead softly against his shoulder a couple
of times before straightening up. “You’re right. I guess.” I gave
Richardson a quick, embarrassed glance before turning back to
Arnie. “I’m really glad you didn’t get in trouble over this. Thanks
for looking for me.”

“No problem, darlin’.”
Hellhound heaved himself to his feet, reaching a hand down to me.
“Come on, I’ll take ya home.”

I stood slowly, still
quivering with reaction. “Um… Good night, Mark.”

“Uh… see you tomorrow,
I guess.” He didn’t quite meet my eyes when he handed over my
Glock.

Belted into the
passenger seat of Arnie’s SUV, I turned to speak, but he held a
finger to his lips and put the vehicle in gear. When we cleared the
town’s few streetlights and got up to speed on the dark highway I
turned to him again in the dim glow of the dashboard lights,
raising my eyebrows.

He shot a glance in
the rearview mirror before slowing to turn onto a deserted country
road. About a half-mile off the highway, he nosed the SUV onto a
crossing and stopped, cutting the lights.

My eyes quickly
adjusted to the pale reflection of moonlight from the snowy fields,
and I raised my eyebrows inquiringly again. He shook his head and
reached into his jacket pocket to withdraw one of the small
scanning devices from Sirius Dynamics.

I frowned at him and
he shrugged, giving me a grin. Stemp sure as hell wouldn’t hand out
that kind of technology to civilian private investigators, so
Spider must have sneaked it to him. Relief eased my shoulders at
the thought.

When Arnie activated
the scanner, we both stiffened at the sight of the flashing red
light.

He moved the scanner
methodically over the interior of the vehicle, and I watched the
rhythm of the flashes with my heart in my mouth. The cadence slowed
on his side of the truck, but accelerated as he approached my
side.

At his gesture, I
eased the door latch open as soundlessly as possible and stepped
out into the snow. As he moved the device back and forth over the
passenger side the flashes continued but the rhythm remained the
same, speeding up slightly when the device neared the seat.

Arnie frowned and
retraced his pattern with the same result. Slower on his side,
faster on the passenger side. I leaned into the warmth of the
vehicle, shivering in the frosty breeze. This time the flashes sped
up when the scanner approached the passenger seat, but still failed
to achieve the solid red that would indicate the bug’s
position.

Hellhound grimaced in
frustration, and I leaned in to point at a likely-looking spot near
the seatbelt buckle.

The light glowed solid
red as my arm skimmed by.

We both jerked back,
staring at each other.

I slowly extended my
arm, trying to control trembling that had nothing to do with the
cold. The flashes accelerated as Arnie eased the scanner closer.
When he held it against my arm, the red light glowed like a beacon
for the damned.

I crept back into the
SUV and clicked the door closed before stripping off my jacket.
Once again, the scanner shone steady red over the half-healed wound
on my arm, and fury filled me.

They’d tagged me like
a goddamn animal.

I could fix that.

I groped in my waist
pouch for my razor-sharp folding knife.

When I extracted it
Arnie caught my wrist, and I looked up to see his scowl and
headshake. I made a face and tried to pull free, but he shook his
head vigorously and his hand clamped down. The sudden implacable
grip was so unlike his habitual gentleness that a flashback to the
terror of captivity made me gasp and jerk back.

He released me
instantly, his still-bruised face twisting into horrified remorse,
and I cursed myself for my lack of control.

Our hurried pantomime
of
‘I’m-so-sorry-I-didn’t-mean-to-hurt-you’-‘It’s-okay-you-didn’t-hurt-me-I’m-fine’
might have looked funny to an outside observer, but I knew exactly
how serious it was for him.

I took both his hands
in mine and brushed kisses over them before holding them to my
cheek. His face relaxed, and I leaned over to hug and kiss him. His
hands touched me tentatively, and I grasped them to pull his arms
firmly around me.

A long moment later, I
pulled away to give him a smile before waving a frustrated hand at
the mark on my arm. He shook his head and mimed writing, and I
groped in my waist pouch for a pen and a scrap of paper.

Arnie flicked on the
dome light, and a moment later, I squinted at his scrawl. “Let me
talk to Webb first.”

I blew out a sigh of
acquiescence and flopped back in the seat. He gave a sigh of his
own and spoke aloud as he flipped the headlights back on and put
the SUV in gear.

“Let’s get ya home,
darlin’.”

Parked outside my
farmhouse, I turned to him. “Are you coming in?”

“Yeah.”

We both got out,
shuffling through the fluffy snow on my walk. At the front steps, I
turned to stop him. “Just let me sweep the stairs off first. You
don’t need to slip and sprain your other ankle.”

His gaze twitched
toward the eaves where we both knew one of the surveillance cameras
was located, but he nodded and said ‘Thanks’ in a rare moment of
compliance.

When we stepped inside
the house, I drew a long breath. Home. Still my home. At least for
now.

Hellhound smiled as if
reading my mind and shrugged out of his jacket. As he bent to
remove his boots, I stopped him. “Don’t bother. It’ll hurt your
ankle. Just leave them on.”

“Nah. Don’t wanna mark
up your floor,” he replied.

“Don’t worry about it.
It’s so old it won’t matter,” I argued, but he persisted, and I
winced as he eased his boot off.

He shot me a
meaningful look. “How ‘bout some music?”

“Sure.” I hurried to
the living room to drop in the first CD that came to hand, and
moments later the first notes of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet made us
both smile.

“Good old Satchmo,”
Arnie rasped as he reached into his pocket to withdraw the scanner
again.