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Double Switch
Book Five
Chapter Twenty-Three
Into the Mouth of the Lion
She knelt in the street and looked under the semi trailers lining the brick passage. She turned her gaze in all directions, noting the height of buildings, the angle of the sun, the locations of utilities poles and sewer grates. It reminded the hidden watcher of those clichéd scenes from Westerns, where the Indian tracker studies the lay of the land while those he is guiding stand around looking stupid. Or bored.
But not in this case. There was an electric tension, palpable even from the distance of over a hundred yards. The tiny woman in black commanded the attention, the respect, and the unwavering to-the-death loyalty of those huge men in black leathers who danced in attendance on her every whim. Another four vehicles skidded to halts down the block, each sending a representative to the coterie of giants following the small figure around the street, hanging on her every word and gesture.
And yet, she was not in command. There was a man, almost colorless, of mature years, dressed in a style similar to the girl's, albeit less flamboyantly and without any hint of her femininity. He was within reach of the diminutive woman at all times -- her reach, not his. He was the only one of all of them to constantly stay that close to her. He was at her side, at her shoulder, behind her, helping her to her feet after a protracted period of searching on the ground, giving her a boost to a higher vantage point, letting her slide her body against his with little apparent reaction as he lifted her down from those vantage points. He was the true commander. The one in charge. The one responsible. Yet it appeared he deferred to the woman. It was odd. The watcher had been prepared to not believe what he had been told, but the evidence of his own senses was incontrovertible.
And that body! He shivered at the sight of her. She looked to be a little under five-and-a-half-feet-tall with waist-length pale red hair worn in a pony tail stuck through the back of an adjustable baseball cap. Her body was ... fuckable was the only word he could think of to describe her. He fairly ached to get his hands on her. And he would. Of that he was sure. He trembled in anticipation.
#
Dolly stood, wiping her hands on the legs of her jump suit. "I know it can't be proved for sure, Chief, but I don't think she came down here. Or if she did, she didn't come down here on her own. The farthest I can track her is to the mouth of that alley over there," she pointed. "If she went any farther, it wasn't under her own steam." She removed the special glasses that she had been using to track Callisto's footprints and resumed her own mirrored shades, handing the special specs off to the Troll Technical Specialist. "Thanks," she said to him in passing and thereby made his day.
"So now what?"
"Well, that's kind of your call. I believe she's somewhere in this vicinity. But I don't have anything really solid to go on. She's not wearing anything fancier than the chemical tracer from the lobby floor that everybody tracks in and out of the Admin. Building all day. We followed that this far. But if her shoes have been taken off, or if she's no longer on foot, we don't have any better way to track her. I just don't see her being taken out of here. About all we know for sure is that she walked around that corner up there and did not walk any farther than that."
"But if she was picked up, why here? And how did they know to have somebody here to take her?"
"Well, that would be a piece of cake if they knew the ..."
"The route she was taking! Call Terry! Jimmy! Anybody on your crew from around here?"
"Yeah, sure. Lexy is a native. Wants to have lunch at this place he knows down here, as a matter of fact."
"Get him over here."
"Yes sir!"
When Lexy made it over to where Drummond and Dolly were standing, Drummond asked him. "Lexy. If you were giving somebody directions to get from the Center to the Hyatt downtown on foot, would you send them through here?"
"Hell no, sir! Beg pardon, ma'am," he said to Dolly, who waved it off absently as she conversed on the cell phone with Terry. "Nobody walks in this neighborhood unless they live here. Besides, you're about a mile north of where you'd want to be, on a straight line from the Center to town. You'd want to be on Worthington. That's your straightest shot. Well-lit with good sidewalks all the way."
"I thought that street over there was Worthington?"
"No sir. To stay on Worthington, we should have taken a left fork back ... oh, a good mile and a quarter. It's a common mistake, though. Lots of people make it."
"Well, then, look at this here. Do these directions say that?"
Lexy looked the note over. "No, sir. This is the correct directions to get to where we are. But this doesn't get you downtown, no matter what the rest of it says. As a matter of fact, I'd say that everything after here is just so much nonsense to get you to think there was more to it. Look at this," he pointed to a particular notation on the paper, "These two streets don't meet, and this one is clear the other side of the city. The aim of these directions is to get somebody to come here." He pointed down at the ground under their feet.
Dolly disconnected from her cell call with Terry. "We called it, Chief. The BP manager's body -- the real night manager, not the clone that waited on Callisto last night -- was found in the woods near the Center about fifteen minutes ago."
"That clinches it. She's here." Drummond began throwing hand signals at the troll teams, who scattered to search the nearby buildings.
#
The teams fanned out over an area that eventually reached a mile square. They got into jurisdictional disputes with the local police department, who were very surprised to find that what they had supposed to be the private security apparatus of a university campus had clearances and licenses at the highest federal levels and operated as a paramilitary organization with the knowledge and blessing of the government. They disturbed the commercial activities in a dozen very large buildings and hundreds of individual businesses. They blocked traffic throughout the area and harassed citizens of all descriptions.
They did not find Callisto.
By noon, Drummond was frantic. They had blown the window to Scotland and Prosper Book had been forced to send a Claw team, instead. Mick was missing. Had logged out to fly a search over the city and just disappeared. The Troll teams went to lunch and Drummond and Dolly sat in a small, overgrown city park in the middle of their search area. She sat on a beat up steel park bench, he on the ground in front of it. Her hand rode the back of his neck, gently trying to massage away some of the tension. Finally, he reached up and patted her knee.
"What are we gonna do, Dolly? We can't find her. We're not gonna find her. I just want to... to cry. That poor girl! She never did anything to deserve..." and he did break down and cry, and she held him. Then it was her turn and he held her while she let go her fear and frustration with great gasping sobs, ending in hiccuping hysterical laughter before they collapsed on the ground, seated and leaning against the bench, feeling weak and drained, but somewhat healed and better focused.
"Look, Chief. The direct approach didn't work. Let's try something devious."
"Like what?"
"Why don't I walk the area pretending to be undercover, but being really obvious. Maybe I'll flush something out."
"How obvious are you talking?"
"How obvious do you want?"
"Oh, I'd like to make it perfectly clear that anybody who messes with you will get about three feet of rebar up his ass."
"Hmm. Might be a tad too obvious. How 'bout something between there and so subtle these idiots might miss it altogether?"
"I think I'd feel a lot more comfortable if rebar remained an option."
She sighed. His protective nature was sweet, but it cloyed at times like these. Especially since, having once stated his objections, and she having made it clear she felt the bit in her teeth, he always let her have her head anyway. It was like the sexual dance that old married couples were supposed to do. You do that to me, (two three four), I do this to you, (six seven eight). Just once, she'd like him to surprise her.
"Chief, the obvious stuff didn't work. Let's try something less-so. OK?"
"Yeah," he said grudgingly. "But I want there to be somebody with a scoped rifle line-of-sight to you wherever you are. I don't want you uncovered or out of communication or unarmed. I've got one missing now. Damned if I'm going to make it two. If there's a choice between your safety and a lost lead, we'll take your safety. You hear? No risks to you. None."
"Alright," she agreed quietly. They both knew that there were no guarantees and that anything they said or planned now was subject to change when the shit hit the fan.
"OK, let's do it."
#
A half-hour later, Dolly was walking the streets of the area in a tight black wool miniskirt and body-hugging short-sleeved turtleneck, a beret, and scuffed calf-high boots. A worn patent leather purse on a chrome dog chain swung from her shoulder. Big dark green sunglasses hid her eyes. Her makeup was subtly different. Instead of the sleek, almost metallic professional look she had worn earlier, now she had a starving-artist look with pale cheeks and too-red lipstick. Her hair was mostly under her beret, although no attempt was made to hide its color.
"I'm turning up Bank Street, now," she murmured into the flesh-colored throat microphone hidden under the turtleneck.
Those were the last words received from her radio transmitter, which was later found in the weeds on an abandoned lot next to a bar a half-block from where she'd made the report.
Next: What the Dog Heard in the Night | Previous: So Cry, Baby, Cry