One Rule - No Surrender, page 16
part #2 of One Rule Series
Thalma called Maggie from a dark street corner. Maggie picked up with a sleep-groggy voice.
"I'm leaving," she said. "My sister will take my place in a couple of days."
"No – what? Because of...?"
"I'm not the right person to work with you on this. Thalma will be much better. Goodbye, Maggie, and thank you for all you've done."
"But Mark – "
Thalma ended the call. Short, if not entirely sweet. They and their mission would be much better off with the calm, focused Thalma in the driver's seat. People's lives were at stake.
Her phone was beeping. Maggie. She shut it off, and since they could trace the phone's location, she performed a "hard delete" with the heel of her running shoe and dropped the phone fragments in the nearest dumpster.
A pair of hard-looking men in scruffy clothes emerged from the shadows and angled into her path. Thalma scowled, but Mark was smiling inside. Please, she heard him say. She headed straight down the sidewalk toward the men, feeling Mark's hopeful grin breaking through and aggression bursting in her veins. Something changed in the men's faces – a hint of wariness or even fear – and at the last moment they parted before his path. A bit too slowly for Mark, who with a casual sideways fling of his arms sent them sprawling on either side.
"Hey, motherfucker – "
Mark stopped and smiled down on the man, who closed his mouth. "Sorry about that. Can I help you up?"
The man scuttled away from his extended hand. The other man lurched to his feet and jogged toward an alley across the street clutching his side and glancing back every few strides.
Thalma jogged on toward the north, hearing Mark's merry whistling in her mind. She sensed a note of spite in the whistle. You may be shutting me out, but you can't control me completely. Thalma shook her head. It was all getting too Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for her tastes.
She stopped at a bar on the way to her chosen hotel and purchased a couple of thick Rib eye steaks, which she ate raw as she ran. The clerk at the Westin Seattle Hotel accepted a wad of cash for three nights without too much suspicion, despite the lateness of the hour, the steak blood on Mark's face, and the request for no maid service.
In her room, Thalma hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob – just in case her instructions for no service got lost – then stripped off Mark's jeans and shirts and stretched out on the King-sized bed. 11:30 P.M. declared the bedside clock. She'd wake up starving as her good old self in the early evening of the second day – the change back requiring somewhat less time and energy.
Goodnight, sweet prince, she chuckled to her alter ego.
Fuck you, came the bitter reply.
Chapter 11
AT 5:30 TWO DAYS later, Thalma reached for the bedside telephone with a groan and ordered food. Lots of food. She crawled out of bed and staggered into the shower, where she remained, guzzling chlorinated water and soaping herself up repeatedly until she emerged just before her après-metamorphosis feast of eggs, steak, ham, and a stack of pancakes arrived forty minutes later.
After gorging herself, Thalma shambled out in Mark's loose-fitting clothes, taking quiet satisfaction in returning to her true form, but not quite ready to celebrate yet. She needed to see Maggie, hoping to learn that their operation hadn't gone to hell while she'd slumbered. With any luck, Murphy had made progress on their targets. But first she needed to get her hair color done and change Mark's clothing, which hung on her body like scarecrow cast-offs.
She found some decent jeans and blouses at the nearby Old Navy, and then decided to splurge and have her hair professionally dyed and styled rather than scrounge up hair color somewhere and do her usual "cut and run" makeover. Maybe it was enduring Mark's male excesses, but she was feeling the need to be pampered and feminine.
And that need naturally conjured up Louis in her mind. It seemed that an eternity had passed since she'd lain in his arms. She missed their nightly snuggle and their conversations...his smile and the sound of his voice. The pain of those absences rolled over her like a series of body-rattling blows. Aarrrgghh. It seemed there were some advantages to being Mark – and seeing Louis as a wimpy brother – after all.
Thalma arrived back at her room in the Four Seasons, her short dark-brown hair parted and spilling over her right forehead in slim bangs – what her thirty-something stylist called the "Peter Pan" look, declaring "it looks gorgeous on you!" She felt luminous in designer jeans and an aqua blue dress blouse. Too bad Louis isn't here to see me now.
She went on Mark's laptop and located the nearest store where she could purchase a burner phone. On her way out, she knocked on Maggie's door, not expecting her to be around, but was greeted by Maggie's grumbling "Who is it?"
"It's Thalma."
Footsteps raced across the carpet and the door flew open. Thalma stiffened as Maggie threw her arms around her.
"Thank God you're here!"
Thalma suffered a moment of extreme disorientation as she gazed into the golden-brown eyes that had been dilated with ecstasy while she – Mark! – had exploded inside her. To make matters even more confusing, similar brown eyes belonged to the man who had exploded inside her.
"Sorry." Maggie backed off, her face glowing. "Come in."
Thalma followed her to the living room table where her own laptop was waiting.
"Why are you so happy I'm here?" she asked. "Has something happened?"
"Yeah, there've been some developments, but it's not just that." Maggie dropped into a chair, smiling and shaking her head. "Your brother and I had our...well, issues, I guess you could say."
"He's not always easy to get along with."
Maggie checked out Thalma's thin smile. "Would I be offensive if I said he had issues?"
"Not really."
"That's it? You're not going to say anything more about him or your absence?"
"He's returned to his man cave and I'm here now, so let's focus on the operation. What are the developments?"
"A World Security Group International employee arrived in town this morning. Dr. Frederick MacDougal, an epidemiologist. He's staying at the Westin Seattle hotel."
"You're kidding. I was..."
"You were what?"
Thalma shook her head. "So why aren't you there watching him?"
Maggie turned her laptop to face her. Images of the hotel lobby and a hallway split the screen. Maggie tapped a button and a noise that reminded Thalma of her two-cycle weed eater rumbled from the speakers.
"You're recording the yard maintenance people?"
"Ha. No, that would be music to my ears compared to this. The dude's been snoring like a rabid moose all afternoon. Must have jet lag or something."
"You bugged his room?"
"Yep. Anyway, so far no one's contacted him. I've been parked closer to his hotel for most of the day, but came back for a bathroom break. Anyway" – she tapped a key and a professorial bald black man appeared – "this is Dr. MacDougal. He works for WSGI's Medical Operations Division. MOD."
"Doing what? What does MOD do?"
"It looks like whenever a government or pharmaceutical company needs a fake crisis or to spin a real one - to support a policy or a company's bottom line – MOD is the go-to guy. For instance, that supposed Ebola outbreak in Africa last year. MOD went in and orchestrated the illusion that people were falling dead in the streets, which triggered a massive order from WHO and a bunch of countries of Lilly's new experimental Plethora vaccine. At the same time, arms orders from various African nations skyrocketed – to maintain civil order, I suppose – pumping up a bunch of weapons manufacturers. A win-win situation for all the big players. I'm guessing MOD – WSGI – made a shitload of money on that deal alone."
Thalma nodded grimly. She'd been aware of those kinds of shady dealings for years but had never focused on them. Her imperative was personal privacy and maintaining her own secret kingdom. Only when World Security Group International came after her did she truly get interested. Maybe she could do something to make the world a better place. She doubted it, but stranger things had happened and were possible. If a butterfly could change the weather, why couldn't she change the world? She smiled. Especially since I can fly a lot faster.
A knocking sound emerged from the laptop speakers.
"Ooops, look's like company." Maggie clicked her mouse, and the scene shifted back to the outside hall, where the top half of a man's head was visible. The clearest thing they could see was his Seattle Mariners cap.
The snoring inside skipped a beat. The visitor knocked again. Inside, the snoring ground to a bubblegum-popping halt. Bedsprings rattled. An aggrieved groan followed by creaking footsteps.
"Hello?" The unseen Dr. MacDougal spoke from behind his closed door.
"Meet me at the McDonald's across the street. I'll be wearing a blue baseball cap."
The man retreated before MacDougal could reply. They watched his broad back, wrapped in a grey hoodie, recede down the hall.
"Let's go," said Maggie.
Soon they were parking on one side of McDonald's – no mean feat since there was no parking lot and the restaurant was an island wedged between busy traffic lanes – just as Dr. MacDougal was walking over from the hotel. A tall, slim man in a turtleneck sweater, casual but classy slacks, and dress shoes. No athletic shoes or jeans for this guy, Thalma thought.
"Shall we?" said Maggie.
They entered the restaurant and stood in line while the MOD doctor headed toward a large man in a corner booth who was reading a newspaper. Thalma and Maggie watched them as much as they could without being obvious.
"Go back to the car," Thalma whispered. "Follow the baseball cap guy. I'll stick with the doctor."
"Okay." Maggie raised her voice. "Sorry, forgot my wallet! Be right back!"
Thalma watched the big guy's eyes flick toward Maggie as she sauntered out. Maybe he was just watching her swaying ass, but Thalma guessed he was the kind of guy who made a point of noticing things around him. What he was probably seeing was just a flaky blonde. Maggie didn't look like any operator. Neither of them did, really. Even in this allegedly enlightened age, men still tended to underestimate women. That had worked in her favor more than a few times.
Some kind of exchange was going on at the corner table between the two men. Mr. Baseball Cap tucked a padded envelope into his newspaper and slid it casually across the table. He then walked out, a coffee cup in hand. Seconds later, Dr. MacDougal tucked newspaper under one arm and headed out, too. Just like in a cliché spy movie.
Thalma eased out of line and at a discreet distance followed the doctor across the road back to the hotel. She wasn't sure why she'd chosen to stay with Dr. MacDougal, but the glimmerings of a devious plan were hatching in her head.
She found herself approaching the elevator a few steps behind MacDougal, who politely held the door for her. Not according to plan – at least no plan she and Maggie had discussed – but Thalma decided to roll with it.
"What floor, Miss?"
"Seven."
"My floor as well."
Dr. MacDougal glanced at her and smiled in a way that suggested approval. But the smile gathered a suspicious edge as they rose.
"Weren't you in the McDonald's across the street a minute ago?" he asked. "You were with a blond woman?"
"Yes. She like totally flaked out on me."
"Ah. It appeared that way." His smile warmed up again as he looked her over. "Are you in town for the Shakespeare festival?"
Thalma raked her mind for any local events but drew a blank. "No. Just in town visiting, um, relatives." She thought of her mom.
"I'm here for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation conference. Some interesting talks about epidemics and how we fight them on the program. I'm a doctor, by the way."
"You are? Cool."
If Dr. MacDougal detected any of the drollness in her voice he showed no indication. Thalma's "horn dog" radar was beeping. Usually men started out being friendly with her, but then their flirtations stalled. She'd never quite been sure why. But so far the good doctor was the exception. Or maybe it was her new hairstyle and clothes?
The elevator door opened on the seventh floor.
"Say," said Dr. MacDougal, "I hope I'm not being too forward, but would you possibly be interested in having drinks and perhaps dinner in my room?"
Thalma feigned hesitation while congratulating herself on her good fortune.
"But I'm forgetting my manners," the doctor chuckled, thrusting out his hand. "I'm Fred MacDougal."
Thalma shook his hand. "Linda."
"Nice to meet you, Linda. I'd offer to take you out, but it's late and I've had a long day. Just need to unwind a bit before retiring, but I wouldn't mind some company. I will mind my manners, I promise you. And you may order anything on the menu."
"Oh, um..." Thalma smiled through her frown. "Well, I am still hungry. And I could definitely use a drink. It's been a hard day for me, too. Visiting relatives and dealing with my ditzy friend and all – it's been kind of draining."
His chuckle was a deep bass drum. "Then please allow me to fill you up."
Oh, God. But Thalma managed a thin smile. She followed him down the hall wondering if it could get any easier than this while not sure how she was going to handle this apparent gift. At his room, Dr. MacDougal switched on the lights and held the door open for her. Thalma entered the room – the same basic layout as in hers.
MacDougal deposited the newspaper with the padded envelope on the chest by mini-fridge and safe.
"What can I get you to drink?"
"A beer would be fine."
"Can I interest you in something stronger?" He held up a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.
"Okay." She wouldn't be drinking anything anyway.
He poured a couple of drinks, and that's when it started to get truly interesting because Thalma spotted him making some superfluous hand movements with his back turned to her. Was he slipping a Rohypnol pill into her drink? Seemed like a stretch for a mild-mannered doctor, but then he was participating in a criminal scheme that could harm hundreds if not thousands of kids, so his moral boundaries were probably somewhat compromised.
"Thanks." She started to accept the extended drink, but pulled back her hand at the last moment. "Mind if I take that one instead?"
"Why – why is that?"
"A girl can't be too careful."
"Are you accusing me of doctoring your drink?"
"Well, you are a doctor, right?" Thalma smiled sweetly.
"Oh. Ha." He gave her a pained smile. "Good point. A young lady can't be too careful, particularly with a stranger. Of course we can switch drinks."
He handed her his drink and sat down with a distracted frown at the living room table.
"Please, make yourself at home." He motioned to the chair by the bed and raised his drink. "To your health."
Thalma raised her drink to her lips. It tasted normal. The doctor did the same - not drinking but lowering the glass and smacking his lips as if he had. He eyed her meditatively.
"Not feeling thirsty?" Thalma asked.
"Perhaps this wasn't a good idea," he said. "As I mentioned, it's been a long day. I should probably get some shuteye."
"A long swig from your drink might help with that." Thalma smiled.
"If you're implying I added a Benzodiazepine such as Rohypnol to your drink, well, that is an absurd insinuation."
"Sorry for the insinuation. I should've just stated that you drugged the drink. Then it's a straightforward accusation."
The doctor regarded her with a flat, cold gaze. "I think you should leave."
"We differ on that." She nodded to the newspaper on the chest across the room, where one end of the padded envelope protruded. "What's in that envelope – the one you picked up from the big guy in McDonalds?"
Dr. MacDougal set his drink aside and stood up, moving in front of the object in question.
"It's time for you to leave, Linda," he said, his voice going so low it was like a subsonic rumble. "If that really is your name."
"It isn't."
Thalma rose from the edge of her bed and walked toward him.
"Who are you?"
"I'm someone who's really pissed off that you and your people think it's okay to poison children for personal profit."
Dr. MacDougal raised his arms and bent his legs in a cliché martial arts stance.
"I must warn you, young lady, that I am a skilled practitioner of Taekwondo."
"Oh oh."
Thalma moved in low with a lazy, swooping side-kick that connected with the side of his right knee. His leg buckled, and he fell back against the dresser with a hoarse cry of pain.
"I'm more of a doer than a practitioner," said Thalma, stepping up to him.
He threw a straight punch which she blocked aside and then snared and twisted to a near-bone busting angle.
"Aarrgh!"
MacDougal swung at her with his free arm, which she caught, held, and drove her knee into the inner crook of his elbow, feeling the bone give.
He collapsed against the dresser, hissing out pain through clenched lips.
"We can do this all day," she said.
"Jesus...fucking bitch..."
Thalma tapped his forehead with the flat of her hand and his eyes rolled up. She reached past him to grab the padded envelope as he crumbled to the floor. She settled on the end of the bed and opened the envelope. Inside were three small liquid-filled vials and five hypodermic syringes.
When Dr. MacDougal came to, he pulled himself up against the dresser and regarded her with woozy eyes.
"Who do you work for?" he wheezed. "What do you want?"
Good question, she thought. The plan that had been vaguely forming since she'd first started following the man swiftly assumed a more solid shape.
