Spy High (3 page)

My flush returned with a vengeance.
Goddamn tents; if you so much as farted in the night, the whole
commune knew. My screaming nightmares were sheer humiliation.

I hid my discomfiture as best I could.
“Yeah, it’s been nearly two months since I woke up the whole camp.
I’m sure everybody else is just as happy about that as I am.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t be embarrassed.
Cosmic River Stone said you’d been through some terrible
experiences. We knew you were coming here for healing, and I’m glad
you’re finding it.”

Yeah, right; healing. And to secretly
protect his parents and watch everybody else at the commune. I
respected his expertise, but Cosmic River Stone, a.k.a. Charles
Stemp, was a lousy, manipulative bastard.

“You’re very dear to him, you know.”
Moonbeam’s gentle voice interrupted my dark thoughts.

“Huh? Dear to whom?”

“To Cosmic River Stone, of course.” At
my strangled half-laugh-half-snort, Moonbeam’s brow furrowed. “No
wonder your aura has that gray overlay. You’re deceiving yourself
if you think he doesn’t care for you. He has never sent a female
friend to be with us before.” Her expression grew dreamy. “How
wonderful it would be to have grandchildren. Cosmic River Stone is
a good man, you know, and his manager’s position at the research
facility is very secure. And he’s only forty-three. Not too old to
start a family-”

My bark of laughter made her start. I
hurriedly hunched over, elbows on knees, hacking and gasping
theatrically. “Sorry…” I choked. “Spit… down the wrong… pipe…”

That seemed more tactful than falling
to the ground and kicking my heels in helpless hilarity at the
thought of Stemp and me together. Never in a million years; unless
the profound desire to place my hands around his throat and squeeze
counted as ‘being together’.

Time to nip this in the bud. I
straightened slowly, wiping my eyes and letting out a few last fake
coughs.

“Oh, Storm Cloud Dancer, I’m sorry I
upset you,” Moonbeam cried, her face drawn in distress. She stroked
my hand. “It was insensitive of me to say that. I’m so sorry. I
should have known by the brown shadow in your aura around your
uterus.”

“Uh… wha…?” I croaked. I shook off my
sudden sense of unreality and returned to the point I’d intended to
make. “Ste… Char… jeez,
Cosmic River Stone
and I will never
be a source of grandchildren for you. In the first place our office
has rules against employee relationships…” I held up a hand to
forestall Moonbeam’s protest. “…and in the second place I can’t
have children…” My words slowed as I considered the fact that she’d
apparently already known somehow. “…I’ve had a hysterectomy,” I
finished lamely.

“Oh…” Her face clouded, and guilt
prodded my heart in spite of myself. Then her luminous smile broke
through again. “I’m glad that’s all it is. I was afraid the shadow
might have been some reproductive illness.”

“Oh. Um, no, I’m fine.” I backed away.
“Well, nice talking to you. I’m going to… um… go check on the
garden.”

“That’s a good idea, dear. Your aura
clears so beautifully when you’re in the garden. You have so much
green in your aura, you know. I can tell you’re deeply grounded in
the Earth Spirit…”

I smiled, nodded, and fled.

Rattled, I strode along the path to the
garden without appreciating the vivid greens of the rainforest as
much as usual. I didn’t believe in all that woo-woo stuff, but
Moonbeam’s diagnosis had given me a distinctly creepy feeling. What
if there really were auras and she could see them? If grey meant
deception it was a miracle she could see any other colour in mine,
since I’d been spouting Stemp’s cover-story lies for the past four
months…

The sound of voices ahead jerked me to
a halt near the garden clearing and I sidestepped into the thick
undergrowth to listen. Aurora’s brassy tones penetrated the forest
silence, interspersed with a softer male voice. That would be Zen
Earth Star, her more-or-less constant companion, though they didn’t
seem to be in a relationship. No more so than anybody else here,
anyway.

Aurora let out a piercing laugh that
set my teeth on edge. Damn, not again. Once a day was more than
enough.

I turned and retraced my steps as
quietly as possible.

Wandering down the path, I considered
my options. I needed to wash a few clothes, but the idea of
scrubbing them on the washboard and wringing them by hand didn’t
appeal. Better to wait until the power came on in a few hours and
then jockey for position at the ancient wringer washer.

I wanted to report to Stemp, but I had
to let the memory of his mother’s matchmaking subside or I was
likely to either laugh or gag at the sound of his voice; I wasn’t
sure which.

Working out was always an option. The
gym was the only up-to-date part of the whole commune, and I’d made
good use of it in the past few months. I was in better shape than
I’d ever been, but I was still feeling the effects of the previous
day’s hard workout. Skip that.

Or I could re-read one of the tattered
paperbacks from the tiny library. At least it was in the main
building so it was dry and relatively warm, unlike my dank canvas
tent…

I sighed and kept walking. God, I was
going slowly crazy here. Surely it must be safe for me to resurface
in my real life by now. After nearly four months all the bad guys
from my last case should finally be behind bars.

A dark suspicion crossed my mind. Maybe
Stemp was lying about the potential danger back home. Maybe he had
decided to protect his secrets by warehousing me permanently out
here, isolated from the rest of the world and slowly rotting away
until I became just another bump under the moss of the forest
floor.

I kicked at an inoffensive fern as I
passed. Maybe I should just say screw it and leave against his
orders…

A narrow offshoot of the path caught my
attention and I turned down it, desperate for any form of
novelty.

The faint trail wove through deep
undergrowth, the soggy earth squishing under my hiking boots and
the wet ferns soaking the legs of my jeans.

But at least it was silent and I could
savour a few rare moments of solitude. I drew a deep breath of
moist spicy forest air, feeling the tension easing between my
shoulder blades.

After ten minutes of unhurried uphill
walking, my equanimity was almost restored and I was beginning to
wonder where the trail led. I hadn’t met or heard another human
being, but the trail showed signs of recent use in its squashed
moss and the occasional broken fern frond.

I was debating whether to turn back
when a thicket of bright green a few yards off the path made me
pause. A couple of steps closer, my heart lurched into a rapid
rhythm.

Shit, I’d stumbled onto somebody’s
marijuana crop. Bad place to linger unless I was looking for a
neighbourly greeting from the business end of a shotgun.

I was turning to hurry away when a
shout jolted adrenaline into my veins. My hand twitched reflexively
toward my ankle holster, but I squelched the urge. The commune
members might be a little naïve, but even they wouldn’t believe a
bookkeeper needed to carry a baby Glock.

Scanning the forest, I tensed at the
sound of another yell, then relaxed when I identified the
words.

“Skidmark! Where are you? Get out here,
old man! You lazy, useless…”

The rest of the shouted insults were
obscured by my sigh of relief. Not busted after all. Now I just
needed to get my ass out of here before I really did get
caught.

The pot garden was probably Skidmark’s
private stash, and at least now I knew where he wasn’t. Better to
head for the commotion and look innocent when he arrived than to
get caught scurrying guiltily away in the direction I’d come. I
fled up the path as quietly as possible toward the sounds of
irritable impatience.

A few minutes later the verdant shade
lightened as I approached a clearing, and I struck out into the
undergrowth to circle it and approach from the opposite
direction.

When I stepped out of the forest, a
skinny dark-bearded young man jerked around to face me, his black
brows knotted in annoyance. His camo pants and military boots
looked familiar.

Orion’s companion.

He cast a single glare at me before
turning his back to rail at the trees again. “Skidmark! I need this
truck now! Get out here!”

Thus soundly ignored, I took in the
scene at my leisure. I had obviously arrived at Skidmark’s
automotive empire via the back way. Grass and weeds almost hid the
gravel that paved the small clearing, and to my left a narrow
gravelled track wound through the forest downhill to the main road.
The commune’s dilapidated 1970 Chevy one-ton truck sagged
dispiritedly beside a moss-covered garage, and the other communal
vehicle, a gigantic rust-pocked station wagon, slouched across from
it.

The rodent-faced young man’s complexion
was reddening and cords stood out in his neck. “SKIDMARK! Curse you
to a thousand hells, I NEED THIS TRUCK NOW!”

This didn’t seem like a good time to
visit. I began to retreat.

The crunch of my boots on gravel made
Ratboy whip around to face me again. As he did, Skidmark shuffled
out from behind the shed.

“Dude,” he mumbled. “Be cool, man.”

Ratboy spun, his fists clenching, and I
took a couple of quick steps closer in case he attacked the older
man.

I wasn’t sure who might win if they
actually fought. Skidmark was probably in his early seventies, but
his arms were corded with ropy muscle. I’d seen him work out and I
was pretty sure he could take Ratboy if he was sober.

But he wasn’t. As usual.

Slack-faced, he swayed gently as he
worked grubby fingers through his long grey beard as though
searching for his own chin. In his other hand a twist of cigarette
paper emitted a thin curl of smoke, and the sickly-sweet odour of
smouldering marijuana drifted to my nose.

He raised the joint and blinked at it
as if surprised to find it in his hand before offering it to
Ratboy. “Toke?”

“No!” A sudden sweep of Ratboy’s arm
made me jump toward them, but he was only snatching the cigarette
to fling it to the gravel. He crushed it under his heel, glaring at
Skidmark from close range. “Fix. The. Truck,” he ground out.
“Now.”

“I can have a look at it if you want,”
I offered, hoping to defuse the situation. “Those old trucks are
usually pretty easy to work on.”

Ratboy shot me a contemptuous look
before deliberately turning his back.

Skidmark blinked again, his hand poised
as though still holding the now-defunct doobie. His gaze tracked
slowly to Ratboy’s glare. “Fixing trucks is men’s work,” he
mumbled.

Ordinarily I’d have responded to a
comment like that with an insult of the unprintable variety, but
the tension in their exchange stilled my tongue.

“Mm,” I murmured noncommittally and
fell back a pace, watching.

Ratboy gave a sharp nod and jabbed a
finger at Skidmark’s face. “Fix it. Or I’ll have the woman do
it.”

Okay, that was enough to piss me
off.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I drawled. “I don’t
think
the woman
will be able to do it after all. Men’s work
is much too complicated.”

Ratboy barked an unintelligible word
and strode away, his boots crunching angrily on the gravel.

Skidmark and I watched in silence while
he marched down the road, his shoulders rigid. When he rounded a
curve and the trees hid him from view, Skidmark yawned and
scratched his head under the lank grey ponytail that dangled
half-way down his back.

“He called you a whore,” he translated
helpfully.

I turned to stare at him and he smiled,
his blank innocent eyes incongruous in his weathered face.

“Well, golly gee,” I said after a
moment. “Now my feelings are hurt and I’m going to go home and cry.
What a little dickwad.”

Skidmark wheezed what might have been
laughter. Then he directed a puzzled frown at his empty fingers and
mumbled, “Coulda sworn I rolled a bomber just before I came out
here…”

“Ratboy squished it,” I reminded him,
and pointed to the crushed cigarette.

“Aw, man…” Skidmark squatted slowly,
eyeing the scrap of paper with intense concentration. “Bummer…” He
bowed his head as if in requiem. He stayed that way for so long I
was about to bend down and make sure he was okay when he moved at
last, reaching for the mangled joint. “Good roach…” he muttered,
and brushed most of the dirt off it before tucking it into the
pocket of his stained coveralls. “Smoke it later…”

He rose in slow motion and drifted over
to stand contemplating the truck. After several minutes he sighed.
“Need a toke,” he said, and shuffled away.

I shook my head and wandered over to
the truck. The keys were in the ignition, and I popped the hood
before sliding into the driver’s seat.

The starter cranked over reassuringly,
but the engine didn’t even hint at catching. I grunted and slid
down from the seat to go around the front. Poking my head under the
hood, I eyed the greasy old V-8 squatting in the middle of its
cavernous bay, festooned with grimy wires and half-perished rubber
hoses. I sucked in a deep breath of burnt-oil scent and smiled.
Likely an electrical problem.

After a brief visual inventory, I began
to trace the ignition path. Examining the wire leading up from the
ignition coil, I let out a ‘hmph’ of surprise when it dropped away
from the distributor cap.

“Well, that’ll do it,” I muttered, and
reconnected it.

Sure enough, the engine fired up on the
first try, and I was basking in the satisfaction of an easy fix
when it abruptly died.

“What the…?” I hopped out of the cab
just in time to catch Skidmark carefully laying the wire in its
original loosened position on the distributor cap.