blouse, charcoal just-so suit and pearls. Ridiculously well-put together for 9 in the morning. Where Tauber seemed to have fallen apart without the program, Miriam Fine had obviously thrived. The instant after sizing Tauber up, she turned her attention to me and Max and her expression changed. Her mouth smiled but her eyes didn’t—this was a pattern among this whole group and not one that made me real comfortable. “Come inside,” she said in a stage whisper. “You don’t want to be seen.”
The living room was straight out of some decorating magazine, paint by numbers. Everything looked fine and went together, I guess, but the place might as well have been a movie set. There was nothing personal anywhere—no magazines on the table, no trash or cups or loose papers anywhere. Just two matched couches, a TV in an old-style armoire and a neat little computer desk with the CPU in a box attached to the leg. The desktop held her monitor screen and a neat stack of papers—bills, one purple Sticky note and her paycheck stub—a real corporate, computerized stub, not the handwritten job we got whenever Dave made us a little money at the store. The place was so orderly, I was afraid to sit down.
“What’s happened, Mark? Why are you here?” Fine asked, but she kept glancing at Max, who was hovering quietly in the background. Before Tauber could answer, she started retreating to the kitchen. “Let me get you some water—I’m sure you’re thirsty.”
“We’re fine,” Max said but she was gone for just a few seconds, returning with a pitcher and glasses on a tray. Nobody took any.
“Dave Monaghan’s dead,” Tauber answered finally. Fine lowered her eyes and took a breath, slow and deep. She daubed at her forehead a couple times.
“How?” she said.
“Shot dead in Florida yesterday.”
“How do you know?” she asked, which struck me as an odd question.
“We were there,” I said, indicating Max and me. “They shot him through the bathroom window and then they blew up the house.”
“Who did?” she asked and I wondered why she was asking questions, with words. She was in the program, wasn’t she? Couldn’t she just read our minds? Maybe the other two were blocking her, which seemed kind of odd too. Or maybe she felt a need, for some reason, to hear their answers aloud.
“Two mindbenders,” Max answered. “Minor league, less than .5 on the Kirlian scale. We met them half an hour later trying to go through Dave’s office.” Fine’s eyes widened.
“What happened to them?” she asked. “Did they—could they tell you anything?”
“They didn’t know enough to tell,” Max said. “But they came in an expensive SUV under suggestion with after-action forms to fill out and phone numbers to report to.”
“Did you get the phone numbers?”
“They’re useless,” Max shrugged. “You get a recorded message that asks for the extension you wish to dial.” He and Fine had a kind of staring contest going. “But they were clearly cogs in a pretty organized wheel.”
“Whose?”
“Can’t tell. They blocked well—no names or titles. Their thoughts were in English, so no language cues.”
“Did you dispose of them?” Miriam Fine said and I squirmed at the directness of the question. I squirmed a little more at being the only one in the room who seemed uncomfortable with it.
“I put them out overnight. They have to be up and around by now—and raising the alarm.”
“Which is why you’re here,” Fine said.
“Dave left a list of agents he felt should be contacted—he must have felt you were in danger.”
“That’s what you think?” Fine said, settling into a chair by the fireplace, smoothing her skirt under her, her eyes never leaving Max. “What is your plan?”
“My…plan?” Max stammered. “Just to follow Dave’s blueprint. Just…just to warn you.”
“Against what? Against whom?”
“Whoever killed Dave,” he answered, like it was pretty obvious—I thought
The living room was straight out of some decorating magazine, paint by numbers. Everything looked fine and went together, I guess, but the place might as well have been a movie set. There was nothing personal anywhere—no magazines on the table, no trash or cups or loose papers anywhere. Just two matched couches, a TV in an old-style armoire and a neat little computer desk with the CPU in a box attached to the leg. The desktop held her monitor screen and a neat stack of papers—bills, one purple Sticky note and her paycheck stub—a real corporate, computerized stub, not the handwritten job we got whenever Dave made us a little money at the store. The place was so orderly, I was afraid to sit down.
“What’s happened, Mark? Why are you here?” Fine asked, but she kept glancing at Max, who was hovering quietly in the background. Before Tauber could answer, she started retreating to the kitchen. “Let me get you some water—I’m sure you’re thirsty.”
“We’re fine,” Max said but she was gone for just a few seconds, returning with a pitcher and glasses on a tray. Nobody took any.
“Dave Monaghan’s dead,” Tauber answered finally. Fine lowered her eyes and took a breath, slow and deep. She daubed at her forehead a couple times.
“How?” she said.
“Shot dead in Florida yesterday.”
“How do you know?” she asked, which struck me as an odd question.
“We were there,” I said, indicating Max and me. “They shot him through the bathroom window and then they blew up the house.”
“Who did?” she asked and I wondered why she was asking questions, with words. She was in the program, wasn’t she? Couldn’t she just read our minds? Maybe the other two were blocking her, which seemed kind of odd too. Or maybe she felt a need, for some reason, to hear their answers aloud.
“Two mindbenders,” Max answered. “Minor league, less than .5 on the Kirlian scale. We met them half an hour later trying to go through Dave’s office.” Fine’s eyes widened.
“What happened to them?” she asked. “Did they—could they tell you anything?”
“They didn’t know enough to tell,” Max said. “But they came in an expensive SUV under suggestion with after-action forms to fill out and phone numbers to report to.”
“Did you get the phone numbers?”
“They’re useless,” Max shrugged. “You get a recorded message that asks for the extension you wish to dial.” He and Fine had a kind of staring contest going. “But they were clearly cogs in a pretty organized wheel.”
“Whose?”
“Can’t tell. They blocked well—no names or titles. Their thoughts were in English, so no language cues.”
“Did you dispose of them?” Miriam Fine said and I squirmed at the directness of the question. I squirmed a little more at being the only one in the room who seemed uncomfortable with it.
“I put them out overnight. They have to be up and around by now—and raising the alarm.”
“Which is why you’re here,” Fine said.
“Dave left a list of agents he felt should be contacted—he must have felt you were in danger.”
“That’s what you think?” Fine said, settling into a chair by the fireplace, smoothing her skirt under her, her eyes never leaving Max. “What is your plan?”
“My…plan?” Max stammered. “Just to follow Dave’s blueprint. Just…just to warn you.”
“Against what? Against whom?”
“Whoever killed Dave,” he answered, like it was pretty obvious—I thought
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