Time to clean up the mess. I really think less of Team Hector for going along with this. Another syringe in the pack had a very small amount of a dye that biodegraded quickly but, used skillfully, created very sincere needle tracks.
Unfortunately, it only decayed properly if the subject was still alive, so she had to listen to his whimpering as she stabbed his veins in the appropriate places and released just a tiny spot of the dye. At school, practicing this skill on each other had been less than fun. It had gotten her over a minor nervousness around needles, but the dye did tend to sting a bit.
When she had enough tracks to be convincing, she waited five minutes and retied his feet and hands to each other, rather than the chair. The interrogation drugs were wearing off, but he was still drugged enough to offer little resistance as she maneuvered him over her shoulder and carried him into the bedroom. As always, the weight didn’t present much problem to her upgraded musculature, but the leverage took some managing — particularly as he was not quite dead weight and tended to twitch.
In the bedroom, she did the distasteful but necessary things to set the scene up for the forensics people and gave him his final injection, prepping a second glass with the mistress’s lip marks and drugged wine and leaving them on the nightstand next to the bed. She poured a second plain wine cooler down the drain and had two clean, empty bottles for the kitchen trash.
She was putting the assorted debris — used ties, gag, syringes — away when she had the sudden unexpected need to make a dash for the bathroom. She was violently sick in the toilet, and swore weakly as she cleaned her face with toilet tissue afterwards, making sure every bit of the unwelcome evidence got thoroughly flushed and scrubbing out the toilet afterwards. It would not be out of character for the mistress to have cleaned up a bit for her date, and the cleaning smell would go unremarked even if it was noticed.
Of all the damned times to start catching a stomach flu. I can’t even remember the last time I was sick with something. And I sure as hell am not pregnant, thank God. She stalked into the kitchen and resumed the careful scene clean-up.
“You can stop recording, buckley. Save it as… call it ‘Hector Archive.’ ”
“We’ve got to run for it now, don’t we? Not that it’s any use.”
“No, buckley. I’m just about through here. You can set AI emulation back to level two.”
“But… but… but… oh all right…” It trailed off. The buckley was never as enthusiastic when things were going well.
Home before eleven. Cally looked at her watch and unbuckled it from her wrist. For a solo mission, that part at least wasn’t so bad.
The briefcase with all the incriminating evidence came into the hotel room with her, as per SOP when a crew wasn’t available. She’d carry it in herself when she reported tomorrow and hand it over to the cleaning department. She’d given considerable thought to how to handle any stress with her bosses over her vacation and had decided to brazen it out. She wanted to discuss the priorities that had left a traitor who had caused the death of a whole team of agents alive for a few decades after that act. This should effectively open the conversation.
She took her makeup off slowly, oddly tired this evening. Well, that’s absolutely, finally, unquestionably the last of my personal better dead list. I’d thought Worth was it, but okay, so it was Petane. Yay. Rah. I’ll have to celebrate that sometime. She shook her head to clear it a bit and grabbed a clean teddy to sleep in. Not up for a night on the town? Me? I definitely must be coming down with something. Ah, best just get an early night.
She looked at herself in the mirror as she changed, running a hand through the brown curls. They’d likely be gone by this time tomorrow. Sinda Makepeace was so silver-blond and fair she looked like the stereotypical Swedish ski bunny. It wasn’t often she had a cover with lighter coloring than her own. I’m about to start brooding again. Geez. I must be really tired. To bed.
She grabbed a washcloth without thinking about it and plonked it on the night table, turning off the alarm clock and then the light.
She would have liked to linger in bed in the morning. It had been such a wonderful dream. She would have sworn she had actually tasted one of the delicious conch omelets and even a slice of fresh key lime pie. She had been sitting in Mom’s lap, and Dad had just brought a fresh glass of limeade, tart and cold with ice.
The ice in the drink wasn’t the only thing that was cold. Out of reflex, she reached for the washcloth with one hand as she wrestled herself free of the sodden and clammy sheets. They stank of sour sweat and she stripped off her nightclothes and left them in the floor as she made a beeline for a hot shower to clean up and warm herself. Huh. Must have had a fever break in the night or something. I hate being sick.
After checking out, she got out her phone and called a number, “I need a cab.” She gave the address.
When the cab arrived, she left her suitcase and backpack in the trunk, taking only the briefcase and her purse. The cabby didn’t talk to her until they pulled up to a coin laundry.
“There’s a fire door at the back next to the restroom. Don’t pay any attention to the sign about the alarm. Get in the back of the truck,” he said, touching something on the seat beside himself that might have been a PDA screen.
“Thanks.” She gave him a nice tip and a small smile, even though the meter had obviously not been running.
The single person in the coin laundry didn’t even look up as she walked through and out the back. It was the kind of neighborhood that discouraged curiosity about other people’s business.
In the alley, there was a squat woman in gray coveralls holding the back of the truck open. She didn’t speak to Cally, just waited as she got in and closed the door behind her. Inside, the boxes of what appeared to be housewares were tightly lashed down to keep them from slipping around, and Cally blessed whoever had loaded the truck for their thoughtfulness. She found the least uncomfortable place to wedge herself for the ride and sat down.
It was well-known among upper level operatives that the Bane Sidhe had a base, a sort of mini Sub-Urb of their own, in the vicinity of Chicago. In this case, “in the vicinity” meaning within a two hour drive, give or take. Today it took longer, and she was sore and heartily tired of bouncing around in the unpadded back of the truck by the time the truck slowed, turned, and did the starting, stopping, standing, and maneuvering that indicated arrival at the base.
By the time the door opened, she was more than ready to check in and go find a deep, hot bath for a couple of hours. Her first stop was in a little office immediately off of the underground parking lot. She handed the briefcase and her car keys to a man of indeterminate age with lead gray hair and a very large nose.
“Marty, the case and contents need the full treatment.” She grabbed a stylus and scribbled an address, as well as car make, model, and tag number, on the pad on the counter. “The car is also dirty, and needs pickup today — it’s a hotel lot. You can clean the clothes in the trash bag in the suitcase, but I’d really like the rest of the clothes and the backpack and contents back. How’s Mary?”