Wired (13 page)

I swiveled around and pressed the space bar on the keyboard. The screen flickered and came to life, and I saw the mirror on the side of my monitor. I looked into it at Mason. “What should I be looking for?”

He sighed and I knew he still wasn't sure. “Just describe to me what you see and if anything surprises you,” he suggested.

“I see a desktop with the usual shortcuts and a couple of zip files. Looks like I downloaded a virus program. Nothing unusual there.” I clicked on My Documents. The file hierarchy matched the one I'd set up on my computer at home.

“What?” Mason asked. “Is something wrong?”

“It's exactly the same,” I said, clicking on the first folder, labeled
AHOT
:
Hot
meaning my most pressing projects. The
A
would alphabetize the folder to the top, just as I'd always done on my home computers. “That's what's wrong. It's exactly the way I organize my files at home. The labels are all the same.”

“What about the contents?” he asked.

I clicked on
AHOT
. The folder was empty. I looked over at Mason and he shrugged. “Click around and see if anything jumps out.”

I clicked around, then swiveled around to face Mason.
“I recognize the labeling system and the preferences are the ones I always set. But I recognize none of the projects.” I pressed my index finger against the screen atop the list of documents. “Never heard of it. Don't remember it. Maybe I worked on this, but maybe I didn't, can't . . .”

Mason nudged my shoulder, prompted, “What?”

I stared at my finger pressed against the glass. “It's weird, Mason. This is me. This is my work. So, what's back at my house? Who's living there? Who's working there? We just came—”

Mason took my finger off the glass and curled my fist closed. But he didn't answer. He had no answers for me.

“Go ahead and disconnect the external hard drive. It's a backup. We'll take it with us just in case. Then fry the hard drive on your computer and we can go.”

I checked to make sure the external hard drive had been doing what it was supposed to do, then disconnected it and handed it to Mason. I was tempted to smash my fist into the monitor, but that wouldn't fry the information. Instead, I erased the main hard drive's contents, then set the computer to reformat.

“It's doing its thing,” I said numbly. “We can go.”

We took the elevator back downstairs, the external hard drive's cords dangling from Mason's grip. I suppose he knew the best way to conceal a crime is to walk out in the open with it.

Mason stopped at the entrance, where the office party was now in full swing, and he turned to me with a crooked smile. “We have time for a drink. I had you get dressed just in case.”

I turned away from the look in his eye. “I just want to go home,” I mumbled.

He looked disappointed, but he put his hand on the small of my back and steered me to the exit, holding the door open. I slipped by him into the cool evening and we headed around the building toward the parking lot, me trying not to fall into the landscaping as I balanced on my killer heels.

Mason grabbed me by the elbow as I almost went down. But even when I was steady he didn't let me go. He just stood there, chewing his lip. “I'm sorry, Rox,” he said. “I'm sorry for putting you through all this.”

I blinked back tears. “Yeah. Me too. So . . . the hard drive. Do you think what you want is on there?”

He shrugged. “The odds aren't particularly good, but we'll see.”

“ ‘The odds aren't particularly good'? Is that like a no?” A bitter laugh escaped me, and I leaned back against the wall surrounding the edge of the building. “How will we know when it's enough?” This hell seemed never ending.

Mason flipped the top of his phone and held it out to me. My name was still at the top of his list, the DEFCON number or whatever the hell it was still blinking red. “Apparently HQ has reason to believe this isn't the clincher.”

I swore, and was just about to break down when I saw Mason lose patience with me. He perched the hard drive on the top of some shrubbery and stuck his hands on his hips. “You know, there are people in situations like yours who have the bad luck to find themselves having to take part in a civil war or kill
somebody or whatever. I asked you to look on a computer and then asked if you wanted to get a drink. You want to explain to me where the big problem is?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but he overrode me. “I'm going to do what it takes to get you out of the red, Rox. I'm not just about this case. You should know that. And if I ask you to go to a party and take your dress off and . . . and dance in your panties with a fucking lamp shade on your head in order to help me, then that's what you should damn well do!”

“I'm not wearing any panties,” I snarled.

The look on his face went from anger to confusion to a kind of horror. But he was definitely turned on. And I liked it.

I shrugged innocently and said, “The woman at the store said that because of the way this dress is cut I'd have panty lines. She told me just to go with the garter belt and stockings and bra.”

Mason gulped.

“Black. Black lace garter belt,” I said, sliding my tongue over my lower lip.

Mason seemed to have lost the ability to look me in the eye. He didn't know where to look. He didn't know what to do. And turning him on was turning me on. I felt powerful and sexy and in control of something for once.

“French stockings, I think,” I said, putting the last nail in the coffin. “The kind that are so delicate you can wear them only once.”

Mason grabbed me by the shoulders and backed me into the shadows of the building. His eyes bored into me. I could practically see the wheels turning in
his head. Mason wasn't stupid at all. He wasn't the dumb jock with the transparent pea-size brain that I'd once thought was banging Louise; he was the chess-club genius, forced to play every moment out far, far in advance.

What's the move, Mason?

If I'd been scared walking into that party, it was nothing compared to what I felt now. And yet, of all things, the words that came from my lips were these: “I had a friend in college who always used to say to me: ‘Just remember, Roxanne, it can't always be about tomorrow. Sometimes it's about right fucking now.' ”

I'm not sure what it was, maybe the phrasing I'd used. Mason's mouth came down on mine, his hands plowing through the silky fabric of my dress. I could feel his fingers verify the description I'd given: the lace, the tiny clips from the stockings, the satin. He buried his face in my neck while confirming for himself the audacious lack of panties. As he touched me there, we gasped at the same time. His fingers streaked away, leaving damp trails against my thigh. He loosened the front of his trousers and I knew he was either going to ask or beg off.

“Yes,” I said preemptively. I wanted this.

He hooked his arm under my thigh and lifted my knee. I looked at his hand sliding up the length of my leg, the silk stockings, the garter ribbons peeking out where Mason had moved my dress away, the stiletto heel. I'd never felt so hot in my life.

“Roxanne,” he said, looking straight into my eyes as he entered me. “Roxanne . . .”

He fucked me hard against the wall. It went fast. I loved the rawness of it, the unabashed sexuality. I hated that he made me come so fast and followed right after. He never took his eyes away from mine. And that alone . . . that alone was just about everything.

I sat in the passenger seat of Mason's Mustang with my elbow sticking out through the open window, not daring to look at him for fear of giving away too much of what was in my heart.

“Hey, Roxanne,” he yelled over the wind.

I looked at him, knowing that I was grinning like a fool. He grinned back.

“What?” I yelled in response.

“Nothing!”

We smiled at each other like a couple of lunatics.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I was just wondering . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Do we need to have a conversation about what happened?”

I just kept grinning. “No!”

He nodded. Then he shook his head with mock incredulity and yelled, “Okay!”

We were both laughing and stealing glances at each other, letting the wind whip my hair to shit. He shifted again and changed lanes, his foot glued
to the accelerator. All I could think was that a speeding ticket would be more than worth it for feeling like this.

Our destination was on the other side of town. We'd have to pass my neighborhood on the way over, and Mason checked his handheld for the umpteenth time before pulling over to get some gas.

He eased up to the pump and hopped out. I sat in the car and stared down the street to the spot where I'd first come across Mason and Leo what now seemed like a million years ago. There was no reason really to feel this way, but dread tickled lightly up my spine when I looked over at the nearby 7-Eleven. Part of what bothered me so much about all of this was the simple fact that I was beginning to anticipate things. I stared at the shadowy figure of Naveed behind the counter, wondering if now that I knew more of the story, I'd be able to recognize any clues I'd missed if I saw them now.

I swung the car door open. Mason was still holding the pump up to the car. I answered his questioning look by cocking my head in the direction of the 7-Eleven. “Want anything?”

“A Coke would be great.”

I nodded, hopped over the low cement barrier dividing the convenience store from the gas station, and pushed through the door.

“Hey, Naveed!”

He looked up from wrestling with the cash register tape and smiled. “Good evening, Roxanne. You look very nice!”

“Thanks.” I eased over to the candy rack en route to the refrigerated section in the back, glancing automatically
up at the round security mirror to see if the storekeeper was watching me this time. Maybe there'd be something here. Some kind of trigger I missed or just wasn't ready for. I peered down the massive row of sweets. Was I looking for a message attached to the Gummi Bears rack? A note written on Pixy Stix?

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered. Mason would laugh his ass off if he were watching. I gave up and grabbed his soda and a bottle of water from the refrigerator and went to the counter.

“How's the family?” I asked as Naveed rang up the purchase.

“Excellent, excellent. My son just returned with his report card.” He beamed at me. “All As.”

“Fantastic. How's the little one?”

“The little one?” He tucked the change in my hand.

“Your daughter,” I said, pocketing the money.

Naveed burst into peals of laughter. “What would I do with a daughter? When my wife gets pregnant again, I will tell her I want another son.”

I slammed my hand down on his so fast that he must have thought I was about to rob him. “I would love to see your family picture,” I said, trying not to lose my shit.

Naveed's look of surprise faded. He put his hand on his heart. “Roxanne, I am flattered you are so interested.” He took out his wallet and handed me the photo. Dad, mom, son. No daughter.

“You have a lovely family,” I said, my voice hoarse. I backed away from the counter. “If you ever have a daughter, I'm sure she'll be a genius.”

I stumbled out of the store. Mason was leaning on
the side of his car, his hands folded across his chest. He saw me coming and moved to get back in the Mustang, but he must have seen my face. “Roxanne?”

I couldn't even articulate the rage I was feeling.

“It's okay,” he said, in that too-calm voice guaranteed to drive a not-very-calm person over the edge.

“You don't even know what you're talking about,” I said. “It's
not
okay. You killed Naveed's daughter.”

The look on his face was priceless. Surprise. Guilt. Confusion. It was all there, and I'd nailed him but good. “Naveed doesn't have a daughter,” he finally said.

“He did,” I insisted. “She was getting bigger. She was going to be a genius.”

“He didn't. Not anymore.”

“Not
anymore
. So he did.”

Mason sighed. “Um, for all intents and purposes? No.”

“I don't
understand
.” But I did understand. Obviously something Mason or Leo had done while crossing wires and altering fate had changed certain realities in such a way that Naveed either got home too late that night or his wife had such a crappy day that she wasn't in the mood when he did get home. There was no daughter. And there had never been a daughter. Anymore. And the only person in the world who was missing her was me.

“Are we really the only ones who know she's gone?”

“I'm good at what I do,” he said with a cocky smile. “It was a seamless splice, and a damn fine wire cross.”

I wasn't impressed. “Okay, so that's why Naveed doesn't know. Why do I know?”

“Because you're the Major on this wire, remember? It would be very, very difficult for a Major to miss all of the evidence before it morphed into her understanding of current reality. Even the best of us can't do it with most Majors. And I have to say, you have an unusual capacity to keep one reality separate in your mind from another. I guess that's what comes from living inside your head so much.”

He took the water bottle out of my hand and opened it, handing it back without a word. I drank it down.

“I still don't understand why
I'm
the Major,” I mumbled. I'd never been a major anything. I'd never been the point, the center. I'd never made a meter go into the red, and I was never the cause for alarm. I just flew under the radar, and when I was feeling particularly morose, it sometimes crossed my mind that the world wouldn't miss me at all if I up and disappeared.