The Faithful (9 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Everything returned to normal so quickly, it was like waking from a dream. My right hip was throbbing. I pulled myself up using the frame of the bathroom door, and stood there like a palm tree swaying in the breeze. The mirror girl was gone.

From the living room, my computer beeped to signal a new message in my in-box. It spurred me to action, and I staggered away from the bathroom. My laptop was open on the coffee table. The in-box was open, and the new message was highlighted at the top of the list. It was sent from my own e-mail address,
[email protected]
, and the subject line said “FIND HIM!”

Heart throbbing painfully against my rib cage, I clicked to open the message. It was blank. I leaned back against the cool leather, rubbing my temples. Had the girl in the mirror really been a younger version of me? And who was this truth-seeker she wanted me to find? And how in the world had I sent an email to myself while passed out on the bathroom floor?

“Maybe it’s time to check yourself into the psych ward,” I muttered to myself.

While that certainly seemed like the right place for me to be, instead I grabbed the notepad and pen Dan had used earlier. Perhaps if I put everything down on paper, it would all begin to make sense. At the very least, I could document my trip into insanity for any future psychiatrists, so they could dial up the dosage on my meds from “calm and complacent” to “comatose.”

It took ten minutes to write down everything I could remember, from the
“Ricordare, Ritornare”
note to this latest vision. Then I started digging for any recollections of my childhood. My temples began to throb as I searched the blackness of my mind for some spark of memory.

The most important missing piece was my dad. I couldn’t remember anything about him. Not his life, not his death. Shouldn’t I have some kind of emotional response? Residual feelings of love? Grief? Had I felt those things yesterday, before that note had turned my life on its head? My tongue rolled over the ridges of the roof of my mouth as I thought back.

Yes, I was certain I had. That loss had been my traveling companion through the solitary journey of my twenties and early thirties. It had laid its head on the empty pillow beside mine. It had been the empty seat in the auditorium when I crossed the stage for first my BS and then my master’s. It had stood sentry over my desk through endless hours of study. It had been my silent dinner companion at restaurant tables set for two, while I buried my nose in a book to avoid the questioning gaze of other restaurantgoers, and pretended I dined alone by choice.

Not twenty-four hours before, that grief was a part of my daily routine. Mine was a solitary existence that occasionally crossed over into loneliness, but more often than not was filled with the busyness of academia.

The Spaceguard Program had always been so much more than just a job. It was an obsession that had pushed me through each grueling course, from Astronomy 101 to the recent completion of my doctorate.

Relentless in my pursuit of scholastic achievement, I had never vacillated between different academic pathways. My goal of joining MIT’s Linear program had been completely single-minded. Every academic step brought me closer to being a meteorite hunter with Spaceguard.

When they had posted the Space Data Analyst job three years before, I had jumped at the chance to move to New Mexico, eager to get my hands on those GEODSS telescopes.

It was thrilling to be on the front line in the hunt for dangerous meteorites. To be the first to find new threats, the first to study the telescopes results, the first to
know
.

Since moving to New Mexico, I felt a sense of peace for the first time in my adult life. I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I was home.

Besides Dan, I had made no friends, and hadn’t dated anyone, either. I had chalked it up to the lack of free time that came with working nights at Linear and completing a doctorate during the day.

But the truth was, I had rarely dated in Massachusetts, either, and any friends were more like acquaintances; I kept people at a safe distance. The more I liked someone, the more I distanced myself.

Dan was the exception, and although I had not analyzed the reason why, if asked I would have said Dan was closer to me than anyone else because I was so happy in my current situation.

With a shake of my head, I turned back to my notes. To the words “truth-seeker,” circled over and over. Who could be considered a truth-seeker? I chewed on the pen while I pondered, letting the plastic bitterness tickle my tongue. Some kind of spiritual leader, like a rabbi or a priest? Or a scientist? Or maybe a journalist?

Pulling the computer back onto my lap, I typed “truth-seeker” into the Google bar. The first two hits were a news site out of the UK and a “freethinker” site in the US.

The UK site dealt in conspiracy theories and stuff the mainstream media wouldn’t touch. I skimmed articles on militant rebels in Syria merging with Al-Qaeda, North Korea’s latest crazy antics, and how the US Navy was apparently deploying a laser-prototype weapon near Iran.

Focusing solely on the men, I searched through their list of columnists. Several were listed as ex–Israeli army, or Middle East correspondents. None of the names jumped out at me, so I focused on the Americans for lack of a better idea.

One of them seemed to favor political rants aimed at the current president as well as 9/11 conspiracy theories. The other was an anti-Semitic propagandist who seemed to be blaming Jews for the paltry state of his life. It didn’t seem like truth was high on his priority list. I closed the site and moved on to the next.

This one advertised as “Free Thought Publishers since 1873.” The founder was listed as D. M. Bennett, the original “truth-seeker.” This might have caused excitement, but he had died in 1882.

I refused to entertain the idea that someone who had died more than a century before was the person I needed to find, the person who was searching for me in return. A woman named Bonnie Lange, who spouted some gobbledygook about a magic community and getting in touch with the cosmos, was currently running the publishing company. Somehow I just didn’t think I was on the right track there, either.

There was a site for a band called the TruthSeekers, who made some interesting music, but I couldn’t find a tie to my current situation. There were numerous weird mystical or religious sites I was afraid to open for fear of infecting my computer with a virus.

The only other site that popped out at me was for a parapsychologist in the Las Cruces area. Despite a hefty dose of skepticism, I clicked on the link. It opened with some New Age music and I quickly hit the mute button on my keyboard.

At the top of the page was the slogan “Kahina Dokubo-Asari, Seeker of Truth.” Underneath, there was a picture of a woman who was probably in her early fifties. She had a cloud of soft black curls that surrounded her head like a halo. Her skin was the rich color of coffee with a dash of cream; her brown eyes were wide set and gazed off into the distance. A small smile curled her lips as though whatever she saw out there was all right with her. I wasn’t so sure.

She advertised as a medium and parapsychologist who specialized in helping people with post-traumatic stress disorder, those who had been the victims of violence, and people with unexplained phobias. She purported to help people cure themselves using “Hypnotism, Past-Life Regression Therapy, and Memory Repression Therapy.”

My eyes wanted to roll up into my head, but I wrote down her number and vowed to call her at a reasonable hour in the morning. Her office was listed with an address on Alameda Boulevard, near Lohman Avenue. By car it was perhaps ten minutes from where I sat.

With a course of action set for tomorrow, I curled up on the couch and touched the power button on the remote. The TV sparked to life and I found a mindless comedy with which to pass the time, hoping sleep would overtake me. I had done enough truth-seeking of my own for one evening.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I never drink water, fish get busy in it.” Connie Fisher winked slyly as she slurped at her second martini. She pulled out the plastic stick and flicked her tongue indelicately over the blue cheese–stuffed olive. Her lips were coated in a glossy cotton-candy color with metallic sparkles.

“That’s W. C. Fields. But I cleaned it up a bit for you.” Some of her lipstick had made a home on her snowy-white front teeth. Josh guessed she had invested in caps; her teeth were too perfect. And was that a minuscule diamond embedded in one of her upper incisors? He thought it might be, and tried hard not to stare.

The problem was, Josh was at a loss as to where else to look. Connie had stuffed her ample frame into a purple pleather dress meant for a heroin-chic streetwalker one-quarter her size. Her breasts were plump globes that had been pushed up to her neck and then dusted in some kind of gold powder. Every time she leaned forward, he felt a flash of anxiety that they were going to pop right out of their casing and land on her lap. When the host approached to tell them their table was ready, Josh leapt off his stool.

Connie sashayed in her three-inch stiletto boots as they wound their way through the restaurant toward a two-person table near the fireplace, causing all eyes to focus on her as she passed. Josh studiously avoided the raised eyebrows of the other patrons in Filomena’s, but he could feel his cheeks flushing with heat. He probably looked like a john with a shallow pocketbook and a fetish for forty-year veterans of the sex trade.

Once they were seated, Connie ordered another martini, and Josh, feeling the need for some liquid fortitude, switched from Perrier to a gin and tonic. Before he could even open his menu, Connie had scanned the appetizers and ordered the oysters Rockefeller and a steak tartare. She trailed a fingernail shaped like a red dagger down his arm, causing him to splash some of his drink on his shirt.

“To share,” she said to the waiter, smiling coyly. The waiter nodded and made a slow retreat, seeming more interested in the view down the front of Connie’s dress than in bringing their order to the kitchen.

“So, Josh,” she purred, placing her chin in one hand and looking up at him through a thick rim of false lashes. “What’s it like working at the FBI?”

He cleared his throat, hating how much this seemed like a date. “It’s exciting work. I get to meet a lot of interesting people.”

She laughed as though he’d said something witty, and fluffed her platinum-blond hair. “I’m sure you do. But it must get lonely at times, no?”

“Not really, no,” he mumbled, pulling his legs away as she brushed them with hers under the table.

“So, listen, Ms. Fisher—”

“Connie, please.”

“Frieda tells me you work in the Post-Secondary Division of NCES?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know much about the PSST?”

“Straight down to business, huh? Can’t a girl enjoy her meal first?” As if on cue, the waiter brought out the appetizers. Her eyes bulged in anticipation as the plates were set down in front of them.

“Oooh, that looks
good
,” she breathed.

The waiter, who still had the last vestiges of teenage acne on his cheeks, solicitously unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. Josh could have sworn he brushed an arm against her breasts as he did it, and a look passed between them that was full of promise. Josh squirmed in his seat, and took a big gulp of his gin and tonic.

He stared at the ice cubes in his glass as Connie and the waiter discussed the menu, nodding in vague agreement to the steak and lobster dinner for two.

“Have an oyster, Josh.” Apparently she wanted him to lean in and slurp it out of her hand. Instead, he grabbed one off the plate and downed it so quickly he barely tasted the brine and garlic. He dropped the shell on his side plate with a clatter.

“Very good,” he muttered, because he felt he needed to say something. She shrugged and took the proffered oyster for herself.

Josh watched in discomfort as she licked the sides of the shell, her tongue making obscene flicking motions until it eventually teased the tender morsel of meat into her mouth. She closed her eyes and moaned in pleasure, causing an elderly couple at the next table to look over and smirk.

Josh could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. In self-defense, he began to stuff oysters into his mouth, eager to empty the plate as quickly as possible. She finished the last one and licked her fingers like a porn star.

Then she started on the tartare. A pile of raw beef had never been so sexualized. Josh was drenched in sweat and feeling woozy. She finally cleaned the plate and signaled the waiter for another martini, then caught Josh’s eye.

“Are you all right?” she asked, dabbing at her mouth with the napkin.

“I’ll never be able to look at a cow the same way again.”

Her laugh was deep and sultry.

“You’re funny,” she cooed, and took the opportunity to trail a fingernail down his forearm, causing him to jump as if she’d given him an electric shock. “Tell me, Agent Metcalf, are you as innocent as you seem?”

“I suppose that depends on your point of view, ma’am.”

“Oh,
ma’am
. That’s
hawt
,” she drawled, fanning herself.

“Listen, Ms. Fisher.
Connie.
I’d really like to speak with you about the PSST. Please.”

“I used to be just like you, you know. Inhibited, shy. If someone said the word ‘penis,’ I practically passed out.” She laughed, shaking her head. “I was married for twenty years to a professor from Georgetown, and he wanted a perfect little Stepford wife. I did the whole stay-at-home-mom thing. I baked pies. I served three-course dinners I barely touched for fear of losing my figure. I wore these buttoned-up dresses like Jackie Kennedy. I even ironed my husband’s
boxers
, for heaven’s sake.

“I was totally miserable. I mean, like, practically
suicidal
. The effort to keep up that ideal of perfection was sucking me dry. There was a Connie inside just dying to be set free. A beautiful, sexual being. And every year that Connie died just a little bit more. Finally, I just
snapped
. If you can believe it, I screwed the pool boy. I mean, can you get any more clichéd?” She laughed and took a big gulp of her martini.

“That was a transformative moment, though. I realized I was wasting my life being something someone else wanted me to be. I wasn’t
me
, you know?

“So I left my husband. I started eating again. I got into yoga, and met this man who introduced me to tantric sex. It was like an awakening. I could feel my womanhood blossoming into . . . Josh? Agent Metcalf? Are you all right?”

“Yes ma’am. Oh, look! There’s our food.”

“How do you manage to stay so pure, working at the FBI? I’m sure you’ve seen things that would shock even me.”

“That’s probably true.” But blood and guts were things Josh could handle. “I’d really like to ask you about the PSST.
Please.
”

“All right, all right.” She plucked a piece of lobster meat off the tray and dipped it in butter. “What do you want to know?”

He got right to the point. “Any chance I could get my hands on a test?”

“Well, now, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you’re willing to do for me, of course.” She grinned suggestively at him.

“Ms. Fisher—”

“Don’t go getting your knickers in a twist; I’m just joking. I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything. They play it pretty close to the vest in that department.”

“Why do you think that is?”

She shrugged. “I never gave it much thought.”

“Any idea what kind of questions they ask on the test?”

“Well, I’ve never seen one for myself. I gather it’s more psychological than the NAEP, which is focused on educational trends.”

“What do you mean by psychological?”

She shrugged again. “Like I said, I haven’t seen the test. I’ve just heard talk over the years. And they’re mainly psychologists in that department.”

“Really? That’s interesting. Is that a requirement?”

“I don’t know. As long as I’ve been there, which is fifteen years by the way, I’ve never seen them hire internally.”

“They only hire people from outside the NCES family?”

“That’s right.”

“Huh.” Josh didn’t know what to make of that. “So would you say the PSST is more focused on learning about each individual child?”

“Definitely.”

“And they test kids from kindergarten up?”

“Sure.”

“Is it true they do oral exams with the younger kids, rather than written?”

“That’s right. There’s a team that travels the country administering the test. They begin on the East Coast every fall and finish on the West Coast by the late spring. The summer months are about data compilation, and then they start all over again the next fall.”

“How many people are on this team?”

“Eight in total.”

“Do you know them?”

“Not really. I’ve seen them around the office, mainly during the summer. They’re an odd group though, and they stick to themselves. I guess that goes along with the territory, all those months on the road with just each other for company.”

“So all the data gets entered into a computer program?”

She eyed him. “Now, Agent Metcalf. I’ve been a good girl so far. I’ve given you a lot of information without asking questions. But I know how you FBI people work, and it’s usually all very official. Why do I get the feeling you’re off the books on this one?”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Because I am. This is a very sensitive investigation, Connie. The fewer people involved, the better.”

“You over your head, darling?”

“I just might be. I’m not sure who can be trusted, and it’s better if you don’t know much about it.”

“Am I in danger?” The idea seemed to excite her.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. But I’d appreciate it if you kept this conversation to yourself.”

“Of course.”

“Could you give me the names of the people who do the testing? And anyone else in that department?”

“I’ll have to get back to you. They’re around so seldom, I’ve never gotten to know them. But there’s one guy in the office full-time, the program director of the PSST Division. He’s a quiet guy, but really funny. Mainly keeps to himself, stays out of office politics. He’s pretty hot. I’ve tried flirting with him a few times, but no luck. Maybe he’s gay, I don’t know.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sumner Macey.”

Josh made a note. “Thanks, Connie, I really appreciate your help.”

“Well, Agent Metcalf, you can pay me back anytime.” She winked at him, sucking suggestively on a lobster claw.

They finished dinner, and Josh paid the bill. He gave Connie his cell-phone number, and she promised to call him with more information as soon as she could. He left Filomena’s alone, politely declining her last-ditch effort to take him home. Connie shrugged off his rejection and swaggered back to the bar to wait for their waiter to finish his shift.

As soon as he was outside, he pulled his phone out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and called. She was already laughing when she picked up on the other end.

“Frieda. I don’t know whether to hug you or kill you.”

“I take it she ordered the oysters?”