"You told me not to do it, ma'am."
" Right." Cecily looked at him. "Well, what did you want?"
" Some of the guys want to know, uhm...."
" How long we're going to be here?"
Rocko nodded, grateful that Cecily had read his mind, as usual.
"Beats me. That's up to the bosses at Bethesda."
Rocko nodded, but hesitated before he walked away.
"Yes?" prompted Cecily.
Rocko 's gaze went up to the ceiling.
" Some of the guys are wondering," offered Cecily, "why we moved out of that hotel near Medburg?"
Rocko nodded, embarrassed.
"Some of the guys," continued Cecily, "liked it there, didn't they? Close to the action, so to speak."
Another embarrassed nod.
Cecily smiled. "Tell the guys that they might want to stay away from Medburg for a while. How many dead mice did we pull out of there, Rocko? Remind the guys about that as they make their entertainment plans for the evening."
Rocko shrugged. The shrug said, who cares about mice?
Cecily closed the door. For forty bucks an hour, she thought, you might expect to get people with a little more upstairs. But finding people to do the dirty work wasn't easy. Come to think of it, they didn't pay her all that much either. And they wouldn't even consider hiring her full-time, even if she decided to apply. Too weird, they would say. They, meaning Chet Vernolt and his cronies. As for Kraig, he'd hire her because he didn't care who she was or what she did, but Kraig didn't call the shots—at least not yet.
Cecily Sunday knew she was weird. She 'd been weird, and known she was weird, all her life. As a girl growing up in North Carolina, Cecily loved vampires and anything gothic; whereas some little girls played with dolls, and other little girls played softball, Cecily embraced the dark side of life. She learned much later that psychiatrists have a term for it, though it's not in widespread usage: dysphoria addiction. How weird do you have to be, Cecily often wondered, to be addicted to bad vibes?
Yet she didn 't try to fight it. Why should she? Her personality had stinted her career, but that was a price that had been paid by nearly all social misfits, no matter what their oddities. She'd never hurt anyone, and had even cultivated a connection with others, a concern for their well being. Plenty of bad vibes existed in the world without having to generate them yourself—too many of them. And you didn't have to be normal to be nice. All in all, she regarded herself as one of the nicest people she knew.
A minute later her cell phone squawked. Lisa Murdoch 's voice came over the line. "I'm at Emersen Memorial Hospital," announced Lisa. "It's the last one in the area, the last one on my list."
" You sound tired."
There was a moment of silence. Finally Lisa said, "I'm buried in so much data." She seemed close to tears.
" Buck up, kid. Investigations are like that—three yards and a cloud of dust, but eventually you get to the end zone."
" What?"
" We keep working and we hit pay dirt or we find out, more often than not, that there isn't any pay dirt and we've wasted our time."
A deep sigh came from the speaker, as if the microphone had been dipped in a wind tunnel. "How do you deal with wasting so much time?"
" Damn, girl, that's what you're hoping for. That's the best case scenario." Cecily paused. "If it'll make you feel any better, I don't think we're wasting our time on this one."
* * *
A half hour after Cecily finished talking to Lisa, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a white, coarse towel around her thin body. She combed her wet hair and slipped on a bathrobe.
She went to the telephone, swiped her credit card —the "company" card—and a moment later Roderick Halkin answered. "Hey, Sherlock," said Cecily. "How's it hanging?"
" Greetings, Cecily. The situation here at Bethesda is under control. Any news from your end?"
" They moved us away from Medburg. Kraig's doing? Or did the decision come from higher up?"
" Kraig is the worrier at Micro," said Roderick.
" Right." Cecily looked at him. "Well, what did you want?"
" Some of the guys want to know, uhm...."
" How long we're going to be here?"
Rocko nodded, grateful that Cecily had read his mind, as usual.
"Beats me. That's up to the bosses at Bethesda."
Rocko nodded, but hesitated before he walked away.
"Yes?" prompted Cecily.
Rocko 's gaze went up to the ceiling.
" Some of the guys are wondering," offered Cecily, "why we moved out of that hotel near Medburg?"
Rocko nodded, embarrassed.
"Some of the guys," continued Cecily, "liked it there, didn't they? Close to the action, so to speak."
Another embarrassed nod.
Cecily smiled. "Tell the guys that they might want to stay away from Medburg for a while. How many dead mice did we pull out of there, Rocko? Remind the guys about that as they make their entertainment plans for the evening."
Rocko shrugged. The shrug said, who cares about mice?
Cecily closed the door. For forty bucks an hour, she thought, you might expect to get people with a little more upstairs. But finding people to do the dirty work wasn't easy. Come to think of it, they didn't pay her all that much either. And they wouldn't even consider hiring her full-time, even if she decided to apply. Too weird, they would say. They, meaning Chet Vernolt and his cronies. As for Kraig, he'd hire her because he didn't care who she was or what she did, but Kraig didn't call the shots—at least not yet.
Cecily Sunday knew she was weird. She 'd been weird, and known she was weird, all her life. As a girl growing up in North Carolina, Cecily loved vampires and anything gothic; whereas some little girls played with dolls, and other little girls played softball, Cecily embraced the dark side of life. She learned much later that psychiatrists have a term for it, though it's not in widespread usage: dysphoria addiction. How weird do you have to be, Cecily often wondered, to be addicted to bad vibes?
Yet she didn 't try to fight it. Why should she? Her personality had stinted her career, but that was a price that had been paid by nearly all social misfits, no matter what their oddities. She'd never hurt anyone, and had even cultivated a connection with others, a concern for their well being. Plenty of bad vibes existed in the world without having to generate them yourself—too many of them. And you didn't have to be normal to be nice. All in all, she regarded herself as one of the nicest people she knew.
A minute later her cell phone squawked. Lisa Murdoch 's voice came over the line. "I'm at Emersen Memorial Hospital," announced Lisa. "It's the last one in the area, the last one on my list."
" You sound tired."
There was a moment of silence. Finally Lisa said, "I'm buried in so much data." She seemed close to tears.
" Buck up, kid. Investigations are like that—three yards and a cloud of dust, but eventually you get to the end zone."
" What?"
" We keep working and we hit pay dirt or we find out, more often than not, that there isn't any pay dirt and we've wasted our time."
A deep sigh came from the speaker, as if the microphone had been dipped in a wind tunnel. "How do you deal with wasting so much time?"
" Damn, girl, that's what you're hoping for. That's the best case scenario." Cecily paused. "If it'll make you feel any better, I don't think we're wasting our time on this one."
* * *
A half hour after Cecily finished talking to Lisa, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a white, coarse towel around her thin body. She combed her wet hair and slipped on a bathrobe.
She went to the telephone, swiped her credit card —the "company" card—and a moment later Roderick Halkin answered. "Hey, Sherlock," said Cecily. "How's it hanging?"
" Greetings, Cecily. The situation here at Bethesda is under control. Any news from your end?"
" They moved us away from Medburg. Kraig's doing? Or did the decision come from higher up?"
" Kraig is the worrier at Micro," said Roderick.
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