Joe Haldeman - The Coming

Rabin swallowed a couple of times. “Sure. But you’re wet. You’re cold and wet.”

The beautiful woman patted her hair into place and favored him with a brilliant smile. “It’s a living. Not the cold and wet. The other.”

“You aren’t a whore, are you?” Suzy Q. said.

“No. No, I’m an actress. And a medical student.” She looked up at Rabin. “No laws broken. I just do cube for the Institute of Sexual Studies here.” Still smiling, she started to cry. “Could you do me a favor? Could you do something with my cat?”

“¿Perdón?”

She pushed the shoebox an inch toward him. “My cat died. He just died, with the president. I don’t know what to do with him. And I don’t want to go to work and I wish it would stop raining.”

He carefully picked up the sodden box. “Sure, don’t worry about it. But will you do something for me?”

“Sure. That’s what I do, is do things for men.”

“Get yourself and Suzy inside somewhere. I don’t want her to die on my shift.”

“Okay. Is that a deal, Suzy?”

“Okay. Let’s get a cuppa coffee.” They headed toward Main Street, the beautiful woman pushing the cart. She wasn’t wearing underwear, and her buttocks clung to the translucent fabric, rolling. Rabin’s heterosexual fraction watched with interest. What would it be like to do that with a woman? Just different scenery, he supposed.

His civilian phone rang. He wiggled it out of his pocket. “Yeah?”

“Qabil, this is Felicity.”

“What?” The dispatcher? Why wasn’t she calling on the shoulder unit?

“I’m downstairs, on the pay phone. Look, you’re friends with Norman Bell.”

“Well, I…”

“You’re friends. He and his wife have to disappear right now. I was just up in the boss’s office and he got a call from some FBI guy. The feds are gonna pick them up tonight and take them to Washington for questioning.”

“About what?”

“You didn’t see the cube? Of course not. Look, they’re suspected of being foreign agents. For France or her allies.”

“What bullshit!”

“Yeah, and they know it is. He joked about it; they just want to lock her up and throw away the key. It’s serious, Qabil. A presidential order. From that senile old Indian.”

“Allah. Thanks, Felicity. I’ll call him right away.”

Exasperated, Norman hit the “save” button on the Roland and touched the phone screen. It stayed blank.

“Turn off your house,” said a voice he didn’t recognize. Another blackmailer?

“House, turn yourself off for thirty minutes.” It chimed. “Okay. Who are you?”

There was a click, the distorter going off, and a heavy sigh. “Norm, it’s Qabil. There’s real trouble.”

“Yeah? ¿Qué pasa?”

“Is Rory home?”

“No. I expect her any minute.”

“You have to pack up and leave as soon as she gets home. The FBI’s going to pick you up tonight, take you to Washington and bury you.”

“What, that damned interview?”

“I guess; I didn’t see it. They claim you’re agents, working for France.”

“For France? We’ve never even been there.”

“Well, you can stay at home and talk it over with them, or you can be missing. That’s what I’d advise. It’s not like the cube; these guys are a law unto themselves.”

“So I’ve heard. How long do we have?”

“Maybe until dark. I’d leave as soon as possible. Do you have cash?”

“A little.”

“What I’d do… take a cab down to Oaks and max out the ATM, then get on the first train to Archer. From there you can use cash to get anywhere, short trips. Go to Canada or Mexico, someplace you don’t need a passport.”

“But she didn’t break any law.”

“All I know is that the FBI is after her. I think they can find a law.”

“Jesus. When it rains, it pours.”

“Don’t worry about the rain. Just move as fast as you can.”

Norman had to smile. How long did you have to live in a country before you picked up the catchphrases? “Okay. If Rory agrees, we’ll be out long before dark.”

“If she doesn’t agree, you leave by yourself, okay? All this shit in Washington.”

“Sure. I’ll get packing. Buenas.” Qabil said good-bye and Norman turned off the phone. Of course he wouldn’t really leave Rory behind. Both or neither of them would go to Washington. To be buried. In shit? He wondered what Qabil meant by that.

He’d pack for both of them, though. He set out two bags, small enough for carry-on, on the bed, and neatly stacked warm-weather clothing in each. He assumed Rory would rather go to Mexico, for the winter, than Canada. Besides, she didn’t speak Canadian.

With both of them packed, he carefully lifted out the contents of Rory’s bag. Let her check through and make changes.

She should be here by now, he thought. He went to the phone and punched RR, Rory roving.

“Buenas?” No picture, of course.

“Where are you, darling?”

“In a cab. Home in two minutes. Where did you think I’d be?”

“Just making sure.”

“How are you taking it?”

“Um… not on the phone. Talk to you in two minutes.” He pushed the “off” button and rummaged through the drawer under the phone for a joint. It was old and dry. He found a match and lit it. Took one puff and stabbed it out in the sink. Wrong direction. He poured a glass of port and sipped it, waiting, thinking.

This might not have anything to do with the interview. The FBI might have linked him and Rory to whatever that superweapon was, that may or may not have been an invention of Pepe’s.

The doorknob rattled and Rory knocked. Of course her thumb-print didn’t unlock it unless the house was on. He went down the hall and opened the door.

“What, is the house off?”

Norm held the door open and shut it behind her. “Yeah. The shit has hit.”

She nodded. “I know. Goddamn governor on top of everything else. But why the house?”

“The governor?”

“Yeah. Why’s the house off?”

“The FBI. What did the governor do?”

Rory rubbed her wet hair with both hands. “The governor got me fired, you know that? Did he call the FBI?”

“Fired?”

“You didn’t know.” Norman opened both hands and made a noise. “The governor leaned on Mal because of an interview I did this morning. So I’m on sabbatical. What does the FBI have to do with it?”

They were in the breakfast nook. “Sit down. Let me get you something to drink.”

She sat down. “Just water. What’s the FBI? The assassination?”

“Somebody got assassinated?”

She kneaded her forehead. “Of course. Why would you know? The president and all her cabinet, killed in a bomb blast. The vice-president, too.”

“My God. Bombed! Was it France?”

“No. Grayson Pauling carried a briefcase full of explosive into a cabinet meeting. Suicide-murder.”

“Pauling.”

“He was serious about changing the agenda. Lunatic, martyr, I don’t have it sorted out. What about the FBI now?”

He got a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. “Qabil called.”

“Oh, good. That’s all we need.”

“No. That’s not it. He found out, as a cop, down at the station, he heard the FBI is coming to get you. Take you to Washington.”

“Oh, shit.” She took the water but didn’t drink. “They can’t do that. I didn’t break any law.”