Eagle and Mac then got into an earnest discussion of the Freudian implications of that many toilets and Moms simply told them to shut up and stop clogging the net. She came downstairs where the rest of the team was gathered and brought a deafening silence when they saw her.
“We got to blend in here,” Moms said. “There are plenty of clothes upstairs. Improvise, gentlemen.”
She was wearing a tennis skirt and some top that made her look much more attractive than she wanted. They were all staring at her long, toned legs. No one really noticed the tennis bag slung over one shoulder.
“Everything else in the closet was impractical,” Moms defended with little conviction. “This is athletic and allows me to move around and not be noticed.”
Nada shook his head. “Give it up, Moms.” They all knew the outfit stripped her of the appearance of competency, but ultimately everything a person wears is some sort of uniform. They knew it had cost her a lot to take off her cammies and put on those little socks with the pink fur ball above the ankle.
“Actually, there is a practical aspect to this,” Moms said. She dropped the tennis bag on one of the sofas and unzipped it. Her MP-5, suppressor screwed on, lay inside along with extra magazines, grenades, her suppressed MK-23, a knife, and other goodies.
“Smart move,” Nada acknowledged. “About the only way you’ll be able to move around here armed and concealed.”
“Think golf clothes, gentlemen,” Moms said, with a nod toward one of the staircases. “Then think golf club bags.”
“And golf cart,” Eagle said. “There’s one parked in this little garage next to the big garage.”
“We can modify it,” Mac said. “We can probably get the extra flamer and Roland’s M-240 rigged on one. Laser designator. I saw an ATV in there, too. I can merge them.” Mac was getting excited at the thought of playing with these toys.
As Moms picked her MP-5 up, the team trudged upstairs to even the score. Winslow had apparently been a pretty fit guy, but none of his golf clothes would fit Roland. The weapons man had to search for the largest pair of sweatpants he could find along with a hoodie with a yacht club logo. Mac and Eagle looked like mismatched golfers, in shorts and loose shirts, which allowed them to strap their MK-23s underneath them. Doc, not having dedicated his life like the others to staying fit and trim, had to do a bit of searching to find a shirt that would fit. Nada saw Eagle reaching for a pair of black silk socks and simply said: “No.”
“How many feet did this guy have?” Mac asked, noting the socks in their neat bundles and the rows of shoes that lined one entire wall.
“Check this out.” Roland had opened another one of the unending supply of doors and a small room with a wine fridge and microwave sat next to a small copper sink. “You could live in here.”
“How many wrists did this guy have?” Mac asked, looking at the watch winder.
The team trooped back down the stairs closest to the bedroom and Moms couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing seeing her team of Nightstalkers trying to blend in, while she was tugging on the skirt to get it lower.
“Not fair,” Nada said. “We didn’t laugh at you.”
Moms sighed, looking at Roland. “You were right, Nada. I’ll call Support and have them bring us some appropriate clothes that fit.”
Nada pointed, and Mac and Doc went upstairs to pull over-watch security on the street and backyard.
Then the doorbell rang and they all scrambled for weapons. Nada went over and peered out a side window and saw the girl from the garage roof earlier in the morning. He unlocked the wheels and rolled the baby grand he’d put as a barricade out of the way and opened the door, while the rest of the team — except for Moms — was diving for cover to face this new “threat.”
The girl’s hair was short and blue with a couple of barrettes hanging at angles. “I’m selling Girl Scout cookies.”
From behind the big vase, Eagles muttered over the net: “I like the ones that are minty.”
The girl strode in with the confidence of someone used to interrupting and said: “Just kidding,” as she slammed the door shut behind her.
Moms stepped up. “Excuse me. Who are you?”
She ignored Moms, which made Roland take a step forward from his hide spot in a closet. That finally paused her for a moment as she took in the large man dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants that were strained to the breaking point.
“You know, you all look cray-cray.”
“What?” Moms said.
The girl scratched at an old mosquito bite on her arm. “Crazy.”
“We don’t fit in?” Moms asked, and the girl rolled her eyes.
“Hello. The whole place is crawling with new faces this morning. New guy on the gate, new guy delivering the paper, even new guy raking the sand trap.”
Moms had their cover story ready. “I don’t know about that. We’re a group of postdocs from the University of Colorado, and Doctor Winslow is letting us stay here so we can coordinate our research with his staff while he and his wife are on vacation.”
The girl pulled up the piano bench. “Yeah. Tell me another.”
“Excuse me, young girl—” Moms began, but the girl pointed.
“Your legs are hairy. You haven’t had a wax in a looooong time, if ever.”
Nada looked over at Moms’s legs, professionally this time, and the girl was right. Standing by the window he could see the light layer of hair that cancelled out the tennis skirt. Smart kid, he thought. He watched her dig at the bite on her arm and noted her fingernails were painted bright green. She chewed her nails and cuticles but she took time to personalize her nails.
“What do you think we’re doing?” Nada asked.
She looked up with the surprised expression of someone who was seldom asked her opinion. “Well. You’re in Doctor Cray-Cray’s house—”
“Doctor Winslow.”
“I meant the wife, Lilith. She’s a doctor, too. And you killed Skippy and—”
“That wasn’t your dog, was it?” Nada almost seemed concerned, which caused a surprised look to cross Moms’s face.
“Do you think I’d have a dog named Skippy? Hellooooo?” She shook her head. “Listen, I know this place sucks, but it’s my place and I don’t like weirdos dropping in — like literally dropping in — and killing dogs, even dogs who are cray-cray and—”
“Could you please stop saying that?” Moms implored.
“I love your lip gloss.”
Moms looked stunned for a moment.
“Just kidding,” the girl said.
Eagle was laughing now over the net, the concept of Moms wearing lip gloss tickling his warped sense of humor.
Moms forgot they were on the net. “What’s so funny?”
And Nada shocked everyone with his answer. “You’re too good-looking to be wearing lip gloss or worrying about waxing your legs.”
Moms flushed, everyone one beat off by the presence of the girl. Roland was hoping a Firefly in something really cool, like a six-hundred-pound bull, would come crashing through the front door right now because all this attention toward Moms was making him fidgety and killing things calmed him down. Except they did have the Wall up. Still, a man could hope.
“So we’re really not blending in?” Nada asked, to cover his gaffe.
“Yeah. And you killed a dog, so that’s like seven sore thumbs.”
“Seven?” Moms asked.
“I can count,” the girl replied.
“We saw you last night,” Nada said.
“’Cause I wanted you to, helloooo?” she said, and Nada looked helplessly at Moms. “I’m just guessing here,” the girl said, “but I think you’re a bunch of government dudes — and dudette,” she added, nodding at Moms, “and something really cray”—she caught herself—“odd is going on around here. Those people left here in a hurry last night and there was some screaming.”