Chapter Six
You ready to go?” Barbara asked, banging on the bathroom door.
She hadn’t shared a room with a female her own age in years and she had a hard time not coming on the Mom with Janea. When she’d examined the assignment, she’d managed to get down to two Pullmans and a carry-on. But Sharice had still needed a borrowed van from the center to get them to the airport. Janea had seven bags, which were now stacked around the room in the Holiday Inn Express in Dumfries.
She had gotten up early this morning, knowing that it was going to take some time for her to shower, shave her legs and armpits and do her hair and makeup. Janea, who “didn’t do mornings” had woken up much later and had been in the bathroom ever since. Barb had gone out to breakfast and returned, bringing coffee and some rolls, and as far as she could tell, Janea had been in the bathroom the whole time.
“Ready!” Janea said, throwing open the door. “What do you think?” she asked, posing.
Barbara had dressed in a conservative suit she had previously only used during her brief stint selling real estate. Pinstripe jacket and skirt, skirt falling to just below the knee, cream button-down shirt, fairly comfortable pumps in anticipation of a fair amount of walking. If more walking was required, she had a bag with cross-trainers in it.
Janea’s idea of “conservative” dress for a meeting at the FBI training facility in Quantico Virginia was: five-inch black spike heels, a black, pleated miniskirt, quite short while not being entirely scandalous, that gave the vague impression of being from a very naughty schoolgirl’s wardrobe and a white shirt so sheer it was impossible to miss the underwire, push-up bra. Especially since she’d unbuttoned the shirt far enough to show an enormous amount of cleavage and a hint of lace. Her hair and makeup were, however, superb.
“We’re going to be late unless we hurry,” Barb said, pushing up her sleeve to look at her watch.
“You don’t like it,” Janea said, crestfallen. “Is the shirt unbuttoned too much?”
“It’s lovely,” Barb replied, heading for the door of the room.
“I can change,” Janea said, following her. “I’ve got other outfits. Some of them might be a little skimpy for the FBI, but…”
“It’s not a problem,” Barbara said, “but I’m driving.”
“Oh, great,” Janea sighed, handing over the keys. She had driven them from Dulles to Dumfries in the rented Grand Am, the trunk and back of the car packed with luggage. She wasn’t looking forward to having the “church lady” drive, probably slowly in the left hand lane, as they tried to find their destination.
Barbara didn’t comment except to take the keys and get in the car. But the reason she was driving was that Janea couldn’t keep her mind on the road. She was usually all over the lane, if for no other reason than checking her makeup, couldn’t maintain speed and had a tendency to miss turns. They’d had to turn around three times to make it to the Holiday Inn, which was right off of U.S.-1 and not particularly hard to find.
When Janea was settled, definitely not wearing a seatbelt, they’d had that conversation yesterday, Barb pulled out of the parking spot and headed for the entrance, slowing only for the speedbumps. When she reached U.S.-1 she pulled out into a narrow slot in traffic, tires screaming and smoke rising from the asphalt.
“Freya preserve us,” Janea said, her eyes wide, grabbing at anything solid to hold herself in place as Barbara slid dexterously into the left-hand lane then back to the right, weaving through traffic. Despite rush hour traffic, she managed at times to get up to seventy in the forty-five mile per hour zone.
“We’re a tad late,” Barb said, calmly.
“Do you always drive like this?” Janea said as Barbara swerved into the turn lane to evade a car going the posted speed in the left-hand lane.
“Yes,” Barb replied. “More or less. Less when I’m on time. More when I’m in a hurry. I haven’t gotten into the oncoming lanes. Yet.”
She managed to avoid that fate, spotting the sign for Quantico’s main entrance and screaming through a narrow spot in oncoming traffic to make the left turn. She slid to a stop a few feet from the bumper of the car at the rear of the line waiting to enter the base and the Grand Am rocked for a moment on its springs. At the shriek of tires, the three Marines checking people into the base turned to look, their heads almost simultaneously tracking like turrets to identify the sound, note the Grand Am, then back to what they were doing.
“Thank you, Freya,” Janea said, breathing out finally. “We have arrived alive.”
“I’ve never had an accident,” Barbara said, calmly, a faint smile on her face.
“That’s incredible,” Janea replied, looking at her. “I’ve had, like, five.”
“Really?” Barb asked, moving the car forward as the line crept up to the gates. “Call it another gift. I am but a Servant of God.”
“Yeah, right,” Janea scoffed. “God tells you to drive like a maniac? There’s a real little devil hidden under that church lady exterior, ain’t there? Did your daddy teach you to drive, too?”
“No,” Barbara said. “A boyfriend. He was a stockcar racer.”
Janea collapsed into her seat theatrically and threw up her hands.
“I’d hate to be in the car if you were in a real hurry,” she said, digging into her purse for ID.
“It is interesting,” Barb admitted, rolling down the window as she reached the Marine guard. “Hi, Barbara Everette and…”
“Doris Grisham,” Janea said, leaning way over so the Marine could look down her shirt. She held out her driver’s license but it was a moment before the transfixed guard could remember to take it.
“We’re here to see Special Agent Halliwell at the FBI Academy,” Barb continued, handing over her own driver’s license.
The guard shook himself and consulted a clipboard then shook his head.
“If you ladies could pull over into the lane on the left,” he said, pointing to the appropriate spot. “Somebody will be with you shortly.”
Barbara pulled forward to the spot and parked the car, waiting as patiently as she could, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Janea dug in her purse, pulled out an emery board and began touching up her nails.
“He’s probably wondering when the FBI started calling in escorts,” Janea said after a moment.
“I certainly hope I don’t look like an ‘escort,’ “ Barb said, primly.
“When you’re with me you do,” Janea replied, grinning. “Or maybe my manager.”
Barbara just rolled her eyes and glanced in the rearview mirror. Two of the guards were heading their way.
“Heads up,” she said.
“I’m sure they are,” Janea answered, arching.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” the sergeant said, nodding at both of them but looking down Janea’s shirt. “We had to call the FBI Academy to get verification on you. Could I see your ID again?”
Barbara handed over the IDs and ignored the fact that the other guard was looking past her as well. She wasn’t used to being ignored by men and she found it… annoying.
“There’s a thirty-five mile per hour speed limit on base,” the sergeant said, handing back the licenses as the private with him filled out a parking slip. “It’s strictly enforced.”
“I understand,” Barb replied, smiling at him winningly. It wasn’t worth the effort; his eyes were glued to cleavage. “How do I find building F-134?”