The Whole Truth (The Supercharged Files Book 1) (5 page)

“Don’t make waves.” That I
understood.

“Ask yourself this. What could we
do to generate the most income for the least effort—aided by our skills, of
course—so we can concentrate on other matters? Keep in mind it needs to be an
area with flexible best practices and minimal oversight, so our unconventional
way of conducting business won’t stand out.” His spiel sounded more than a
little rehearsed.

“Something Internet-related? Oh,
wait, I have it. Nobody understands clothing design these days. You’re in the
fashion industry.”

Yuri smiled. “Our skills wouldn’t
allow us a higher profit margin than your average citizen in those areas.”

“You’re private investigators,” I
tried next. “You track down missing persons and cheating spouses, and you hired
yourselves to find me.”

Samantha put both hands on my
shoulders and leaned down to whisper, “You wanted to be found, Cleo. That’s why
you had the blog.”

Her hair brushed my ear, and my
face heated, but Yuri didn’t acknowledge her. “There are supra PI firms, but
we’re not one of them,” he said. “Our business draws in more revenue and has
less contact with legal matters.”

The old guy was enjoying the
guessing game, but I wished he’d stop being coy. I also wished Samantha would
get the hell away from me. “I give up. What do you do?”

Yuri raised his chin. His lips
began to part. I almost expected a drum roll.

“We’re management consultants.”

“But of course,” I deadpanned.
“It’s so obvious.”

He seemed a bit taken aback by my
reaction. With a slightly defensive edge, he explained, “A majority of the top
boutique firms in our niche are supra companies.”

“And nobody’s working in the
military or spying on China?”

“Not that we know of.” Yuri
grinned. “Suprasensors have above average IQ. Perhaps that explains it.”
Something glimmered around Yuri’s face, not a full-on lie but an exaggeration
of the truth.

Of course, when people told
jokes, it looked like that, too.

“Perhaps,” I conceded.

“Samantha, could you hand me the
graphs?”

Samantha finally let go. She
rounded Yuri’s desk and scooted a manila folder across it.

I allowed my spine to rest
against the back of the chair. It was a relief Miss Pusher was no longer
lurking over me like a short, well-dressed vulture. Not that she was short for
a vulture, but she was shorter than me, and that’s what counted.

Yuri opened the folder and placed
a number of colorful spreadsheets on our side of the desk. With these handy
visual aids, he described what YuriCorp did—something about productivity
surveys, loss prevention, and human resource allocation, tasks suprasensors
could do with greater accuracy and speed than norms, hence the supra companies’
domination of their particular consulting area.

Visual aids or no visual aids, it
was mud to me. I was still stumbling over the fact an entire network of
suprasensor companies existed in corporate America and didn’t have anything to
do with Mulder and Scully. Buzzwords flew around my head like gnats in the
summer. My brain clicked over to “grin and nod” halfway through the lecture,
and I was thrilled when Lou from the front desk interrupted with pizza and
soda.

Lunch was served. John claimed
he’d already eaten, and Samantha sat in Yuri’s chair behind the desk, swiveling
idly and chewing on a slice. Yuri and I balanced paper plates on our knees.

“Good, isn’t it?” Samantha asked
when I snagged a third piece.

“I’m hungry.” It was interesting
pizza. Thick crust, low grease, heaped high with veggies and cheese, but it had
white sauce instead of tomato.

Yuri wiped his lips with a napkin
and tossed it in a wastebasket next to a lush fern. “I won’t keep you much
longer. Any of you. I know you’ve all been up all night.”

“She had a nap,” Samantha said,
“while we filled out reports.”

“Not a very long nap.”

“Cleo, you might be wondering
where you fit into all this,” Yuri said. “Why we went to such great lengths to
interview you.”

“Kidnap,” I muttered. I wiped my
fingers and sipped my soda. He was right, though. I hardly had an MBA, a law
degree or any of the things that qualified one for business consulting. Including
an actual interest in the field.

“Our desire for you to join our
team is twofold. A lot of what we do is conduct employee interviews and observe
relationships and interactions. A woman of your skills would be a great asset
to that aspect of our consulting work.”

“Any supra consulting firm would
be anxious to have you on staff,” John added. “Add to that our suspicion you’re
a chameleon as well, and you’re invaluable.”

In my wildest dreams, the ones
that didn’t involve winning the lottery, I’d wondered if I could be useful. I’d
dreamed of amounting to something, but never of being invaluable. “That’s nice
of you to say.”

“It’s the truth.” Yuri gathered
the graphs, stuck them back in the folder, and handed it to me. “This is all
the information about the company plus salary, benefits, that sort of thing.
Read it over the weekend and let us know what you think Monday.”

Across Yuri’s desk, Samantha’s
lips tightened. She cleared her throat. “She should know the risks, too, Pop-Pop.”

“Of course.” Yuri steepled his
fingers. His nails were short and a little dirty. “Thank you for the reminder.
We won’t deliberately conceal anything, Cleo, but that doesn’t mean we’ll
remember to tell you everything. There are dangers in this business.”

Dangers in management consulting?
Was I at risk of becoming so smarmy I found myself longing to sell used cars?

Yuri cleared his throat. “There’s
a certain amount of personnel poaching between firms. Representatives of
Psytech and others may contact you. Not all will be polite.”

“John mentioned something that.”
I twiddled with my folder to hide my unease. “Are they a threat to me? What
about my stepfather?”

“If you sign with us, you’ll both
be protected—you’ll be in the system, in what we call the Registry, and there
are checks and balances for that sort of thing. But we can’t protect free
agents and we can’t protect you from other offers.”

I don’t know why I’d need
protection from those. More likely, they wanted to protect their investment. A
fat salary and benefits would be protection enough in the normal world, but
Yuri didn’t seem interested in discussing the practical aspects of me becoming
a consultant.

Like whether or not I had any
idea how businesses worked so I could tell people how to run theirs. Economics—not
my forte.

“I confess there’s another reason
we’re interested in hiring you.”

Now it comes, I thought. The rest
of the truth. Should I hold my breath?

“Because there’s so much
competition for key talents, there’s also a degree of corporate espionage. It
gives the other guys an edge to know what new talents we’ve located and what
progress we’ve made understanding the talents we’ve hired.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.
Exhaling carefully, I said, “Talents like me?”

He nodded. “You’ll need to keep
your main ability concealed. No one can know that you see lies.”

Part of the attraction of this
whole thing was finally getting to be myself. “Why?”

“If what you can do becomes
common knowledge, we lose our advantage.”

“If your advantage involves corporate
espionage, count me out.” I put the folder on the desk and crossed my arms.
“That’s, like, illegal, even when you’re operating under the radar.”

“We wouldn’t ask you to do
anything criminal. We don’t employ thieves, but we do have a problem with them.
What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. You can speak freely with
myself, Samantha, John and Alfonso about this, but no one else. We’re under
attack, Cleo, and we’re hoping you can help us find a saboteur.”

Chapter 4

Freak among freaks

I opened the folder as soon as
Alfonso returned me to my digs behind the RC Cola machine.

Wow. Just...wow.

If I’d known I could make dough
like that in consulting, I’d have gotten an MBA through a correspondence school
ages ago. Someone had circled the annual salary and written, “Why are
you
worth this much?” in the margin, like a taunt. A dare. A challenge.

Greedy person that I am, the
salary enticed me like a shoe sale at Macy’s, and I was burning with curiosity.
After being alone with the masks all my life, I was ready to try something new.
I could be a part of a team, surrounded by people who knew what I could do. Who
could do weird stuff, too.

The New Mutants! In Suits!

Except part of YuriCorp’s deal
was the people around me
wouldn’t
know the bulk of what I could do. The
supra world would be told I was a chameleon, whose task on a consulting gig was
to blend into the background. Way, way into the background.

I had no idea how being a
wallflower was the stuff of anyone’s superheroine dreams. Didn’t know how it
could help in consulting, either, but Yuri assured me the other YuriCorp
employees would have no trouble believing it.

Now I had to decide—take this job
or shove it. Was YuriCorp my best option now that a whole new world of income
potential had fallen into my lap?

My instinct was to go for it. I’d
have a sizeable paycheck and interesting coworkers, and Nashville was closer to
Dan’s house in Kentucky. If it was true about this saboteur, my success would
help lots of people. A disproportionate number of employees had burned out on
the job in the past year, which meant they lost their abilities after some
weird supra panic attack. No one remembered anything out of the ordinary, and
the other companies weren’t talking, or gloating, more than they ever did. The
leak had to be plugged, and Yuri hoped I’d be the cork.

I’d always figured there was
another shoe and one day it would drop. But did the shoe fit? And was it even
in style?

One thing for certain, my
foundation had been shaken like a pair of maracas. Instead of freaking out,
instead of catching the first plane to New York City so I could hide out in the
subway system with the Mole People and the Morlocks, I found myself unable to
do anything besides stare at the shadowy window. Eyes unfocused, I stroked
Boris’s fur, soothed by the silk beneath my fingers and his rumbling purr.

Yessss. I should do this. Change
was good. YuriCorp was good. My life would be good, and the things I would buy
with all that money would make it even better.

Natasha jumped onto the bed and
startled Boris, who dug his claws into my thigh. The pain jolted me out of my
trance.

Wait a minute. Wait just a
hairball-kakking minute.

This wasn’t me. I knew me, and I
was paranoid. I’d have donned an aluminum foil hat if I thought it would help—in
public, no less, when it didn’t match anything I was wearing. Who was this change-is-good
person and why was she so mellow? I’d never liked dealing with new situations
and new liars.

Samantha Graves. That bitch. I’d
never have faith in my own reactions again with someone like her around. Was it
live or Samorex? Maybe that’s how they convinced people to sign. Protocol, my
ass.

I’d battled with the ethics of my
ability throughout my life. Harder when I inadvertently discovered private
things that didn’t affect me, not as hard when I was, say, in pursuit of a guy.
In that situation, I’d used my lie sight as a tool in my arsenal. Besides my
boobs, the other tool in my arsenal, considering I was neither gorgeous nor
charming.

But that was me, by my lonesome,
unable to shut off the lies unless I poked out my eyeballs. Where did ethics
figure in if you could turn it off? When you weren’t the only one with an
ability? Was it worse when you used your evil power on people who knew or when
you did it to people who had no clue your kind existed?

How about if you used your secret
power on people who did know your kind existed but thought you were an entirely
different kind of girl?

It seemed I was going to find out
whether I wanted to or not. I’d cried out into the darkness of the Internet and
a light had been shone upon me. I doubted any of them, not even YuriCorp, would
leave me and my shadows alone now that they’d found me.

~ * ~

“What are you doing here? Leave
me alone,” I said churlishly when Samantha popped her head into my temporary
abode. “You pusher.”

Echoing my dislike, Natasha scuttled
underneath the bed at a speed worthy of the most highly trained military
operative.

“If you can bawl at me like that,
anything I did has worn off.” Samantha frowned, resembling John more than I
suspect she’d have wanted to, if she’d known. “You don’t absorb it like you
should. Maybe it’s the chameleon element.”

I bounced off the bed, ready to
lock myself in the bathroom if I had to. “Keep your hands off me. I mean it. If
I take the job, it’s because I want to, not because you slimed me.”

“Hey.” She lifted her hands,
making no attempt to approach, and said without a mask, “I just came by to see
if you want to grab some dinner. The only thing I did today was relax you. I realize
for you it’s an occupational hazard, but you shouldn’t be so suspicious.”

“You didn’t vibe me to take the
job?” Because I wanted to, despite my doubts, and that didn’t seem like me.

“Maybe when I relaxed you, it
kept you from a knee-jerk fear of change.”

I decided to ignore her valid
point. “You aren’t telling me everything.”

She gave me a classic “duh” look.
“Of course we haven’t. We only talked to you a couple hours. If you have
questions, we’ll answer them. We can’t lie to you, so why try?”

“Here’s a question. You guys drag
me down here and stick me in this boring room instead of a fancy hotel. No room
service, no masseuse, no goody bag. Heck, nobody even offered me a free coffee
mug. Is this supposed to convince me YuriCorp can swing my paycheck?”

“Pop-Pop explained where our
profits go,” Samantha said. “Straight back into research. We don’t do frills.
If you want frills, you’ll have to go with one of the other consulting
companies. However, I guarantee you won’t like their business practices as much.”

There seemed to be a degree of
bitterness in her statement. I didn’t dig. She believed what she said. Perhaps
she’d been employed elsewhere at some point—to her detriment.

Instead, I said, “I would think
I’d at least get wined and dined.”

“I’m here with an offer, aren’t
I? You can have wine if you want, but as I recall from your blog, you’re not
much of a drinker.”

“True.”

“If you can’t stand to be around
me, I’ll order you a pizza. I’ll even go pick it up.” The corner of her mouth
twitched, like she found my belligerence humorous. “Unless you’d rather have
bagels.”

“There are no more bagels.” She
looked fresh and rested, and she’d changed clothes. I had not. Except to eat
the bagels and pee, I hadn’t moved off the bed. “Did you go home and nap?”

“John and I both did. He’s due to
meet us in twenty minutes.”

“You and he don’t live together?”

She raised one eyebrow.

“I guess not.” If I went with
Samantha, I’d be having dinner with John as well. My personal recruitment
team...off the clock or on? “Where’s he meeting us?”

“A local restaurant. It’s supra
owned, so we patronize it regularly. Food’s better, too.”

“I need to clean up first.”

“We don’t have forever.”

I ducked into the bathroom to
splash water on my face and refresh my makeup. My hair hung in lank, mousy
strands—in other words, it looked normal—and my suit had that lived-in sag. It
would have to do. Samantha didn’t seem the patient type. I hated to slip back
into the pumps, but I had no other shoes that would go with the slacks.

I could live with sartorial
anguish...for now. I followed Samantha to the parking lot. The temperature had
cooled, and a light breeze blew my hair into my mouth. “If I’m going to stay
here, I’ll need my things,” I said.

Samantha clicked a button on her
keychain and a hybrid parked outside the chiropractor’s office beeped. I slid
into the passenger’s side of the ungainly little car.

“Make a list. We’ll send
someone.” She jetted onto the highway, weaving in and out of traffic.

I didn’t like the idea of
somebody poking around my apartment, going through my underwear drawer. I
hadn’t exactly left the place in a guest-friendly state. “I’d rather do it
myself.”

Except for the sound of her
manicured nails clicking on the steering wheel, she didn’t reply. Was that
because the answer was, “Sure, who cares?” or “Forget it, you’re a prisoner”?

The neighborhood we traveled
through, mostly commercial, showed signs of wear and tear. Signs were missing
letters, and there were a number of establishments I associated with sketchier
areas—pawn shops, check cashing places. We passed an international grocer that
could have fit inside my favorite one in Chicago before Samantha pulled onto a
street beside it. She drove to a building with tinted windows that had to be a
restaurant because a menu was airbrushed on the glass in big red and yellow
letters.

A sign, missing bulbs, proclaimed
we’d arrived at Merlin’s Bar and Eatery.

A pack of Harley Davidsons had
glommed the spaces near the front door. The rest of the vehicles appeared to be
pickup trucks with large tires, junkers, and a few incongruously shiny sports
cars. Samantha eased into a space between the motorcycles and a red Ford dually
with a gun rack, dirt splattered up the sides like peacock tails.

“Excellent. Front row spot.” She
turned off the ignition and tilted the rear view mirror to check her hair and
lipstick.

The whiny strains of country
music wafted out the front door when it opened to emit two men wearing boots,
ball caps, and T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off.

“This is a beer joint,” I
accused. I guess it was an in-joke to name a supra bar after a mythical—maybe
mythical—wizard.

Samantha exited the car. “Just
because they serve beer doesn’t make it a joint. It’s a family establishment.”

“Where’s their family?” I
gestured at the two dudes.

Samantha smiled at me through her
open door before she slammed it. “Don’t be stuck up. I see John’s truck. He’s
probably holding us a table.”

I got out and she pointed her
keychain at the hybrid, the cheery beep-beep of the automatic locks ridiculous
next to the beefy Harley that was almost bigger than her car. Sighing, I
followed her through the door, also tinted black, the tint peeling in spots.

Inside, it still looked like a
beer joint. Glass lamps advertising various brews dangled above the booths. The
tables were scarred and scratched, the chairs mismatched. A waitress with large
hair, breasts and teeth greeted Samantha by name.

“John’s back by the juke. This
one of your newbies?” She gave me a once over, and suddenly I knew why they called
it a once over. Once it was over, I felt sticky and used.

What gives? “I’m Cleo.”

“Sure you are. You got an aura
like a popsicle, girl. Order your dessert first, you’ll feel better.” Without
another word, the odd woman sped off between the tables to take an order.

“Aura?” I queried as we made our
way to the back of the restaurant.

“Aura,” Samantha agreed. “She
sees moods. I told you that you needed to relax.”

John had a booth near the back,
and he waved when he saw us. Peanut shells crunched under our feet. Near the
music source, the crowd was louder. Several pool tables—in use—lined the back
wall along with a few pinball machines—not in use. I didn’t spot any kids.

“I thought this was a family
place.”

“Well, not on Saturday nights.
But the food is worth the noise.”

Before we reached John, a blond
man with several days’ worth of beard and an empty pitcher of beer at his table
snaked out an arm and grabbed Samantha. He tugged her into his lap.

“Sammie,” he said, his voice
slurred. “You don’t call, you don’t text. I miss you.”

“Hands off, Clint.” Samantha dug
her fingers into his wrist until his skin dented around her nails.

“But I love you,” he said in
utter, drunken honesty.

“I can’t help that.”

“Don’t you know what I do for
you? We need each other.” He buried his face in her hair, whuffing, and her
eyes narrowed. She elbowed him and he lurched back, sending her sprawling.

I tried to catch her, but I
skidded on a peanut shell. We konked heads so hard I saw stars.

“Ow!” I fell on my ass in peanut
litter. Samantha did the same, knocking into the bench.

“Damn! I’m sorry, baby.” Clint
leapt out of the booth and heaved Samantha to her feet.

“Sober up, Clint. I don’t have
anything to say to you.” Samantha, a halo of dishonesty surrounding her, dusted
herself off. I guess she did have something to say to old Clint. I walked
behind her to John’s booth. He’d risen to his feet, unlike the other patrons,
who hadn’t acknowledged the altercation.

Samantha had peanut shells on her
butt. As I checked my own posterior, I considered telling her, but she pointed
at the side of the booth opposite John without saying a word. I held my peace.
She sat next to me, preventing my escape.

John eased back into the booth.
“Everything all right?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle. Let
it go, John.”

Seemed like a reasonable question
to me, but I was a newcomer, ignorant to the undercurrents, especially when my
companions were as preternaturally honest as these two.

John shrugged. “Cleo, I hope
you’re hungry. I ordered spring rolls to start.”