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I had to leave everyone and everything behind. My life is a lie, a fake ID. All because I stumbled onto LeHavre's secret lab.
They listed their own whistleblower number, but I never trusted corporations. The larger ones don't mess around. Government security pales in comparison to that of corporations involved in certain kinds of research.
They're not openly called hit men, but they designate a few of their security team as proactive and, voilà, you've got yourself a hit team. I assumed LeHavre's whistleblower number was that team's direct line. Their only question would be, "Where are you right now?"
Paranoid, yes, but better safe than sorry.
I had been working in IT at LeHavre's North American regional headquarters the past couple years in Brentwood, just south of Nashville, Tennessee. A conglomerate from Belgium was gobbling up bioresearch firms on this side of the pond and bought Hemsley Research shortly after I started there. I had a clearance level of "secret," but only those with "I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you" clearance knew what really went on at that lab.
When the lab director's assistant Darla – a full-figured blue-eyed blonde in her late-30s, and the only good thing about that place – called that day, it was nice to hear her sweet southern drawl. My wife Cori and I had another argument that morning and it reverberated in my head all the way to work. Our marriage was running on fumes.
Cori was an attractive, lithe, hazel-eyed brunette, also in her late-30s, with a certain authenticity and honesty I liked. A welcome contrast to what I typically run into. Honesty cuts both ways, but I could take it... usually.
I'm a redhead. Not that that means I can take it any better than anyone else, but does apparently mean I require more anesthesia than most. Fun fact. But I digress.
I was a few years older than both women, taller than average, and still reasonably fit.
Darla and I always enjoyed a lively banter. We'd only met in person a few times at company functions, but you wouldn't know it to hear us talk. There was an instant spark, but we had to settle for a platonic, long-distance relationship.
This story is about her, mostly, but I didn't see much of her until the very end. So, you'll have to put up with me for most of it. If I was former military or a cop or, best of all, a former military cop, I might be more exciting. But it's just me, Dub Wagner/IT Man. Dub is short for the W in Wagner, in case you're wondering.
Tim sat in the cubicle behind me. He was a couple years and inches older and shorter than me, but with a handsome face framed in thick brown hair. He'd been with the company longer and enjoyed a regular stream of co-workers, mostly women, stopping by just to say hello.
We had an unspoken competition – not over women, he'd win that nine times out of ten – to come up with the best one-liners. On a good day, we were the second coming of Abbott & Costello. We tried and failed to come up with a more recent comedy duo. He suggested Sonny & Cher, but with me as Cher because I was taller, it didn't work for me.
On a bad day, we were called into the principal's office — our boss, Griffin — and given a talking to about professional decorum, blah blah blah.
We regularly overheard each other's phone conversations and, after one of my calls from Darla, he would say something like, "Phone sex again?" or "Get a room!" or "Have you told your wife about her?" My responses were equally juvenile and not worth repeating.
On this latest call from Darla, she said the lab's production line was "messed up."
"The term you're looking for," I said, "is 'hosed.' Probably caused by a Windows update."
I laughed. She did not. She was under duress. Boss breathing down her neck, probably staring down her blouse.
The software controlling the hardware was not working. And that's as technical as I'm going to get. Nobody wants technical details.
She said Jimmy, the handyman down there, couldn't fix it.
"Jimmy couldn't jimmy it?" I offered with a laugh and smile in Tim's direction, but he wasn't there. He would have drummed out a "ba-dum-bump" with his hands for that one.
There was silence on her end, but if you listened closely you could almost hear her rolling her eyes.
"No one can fix it," she said, defeated.
"Are they holding their mouth right?" I asked.
I knew things were bad when she didn't even scoff at that. Even at my stupidest jokes, she would at least scoff.
The idea that it matters how you hold your mouth while fixing something is a joke from Tennessee, I think. I'd never heard the phrase until moving there, at least. I'll give the middle Tennessee IT community credit until someone else claims it... which seems unlikely.
She was in no mood for jokes, though, so I stopped.
My boss Griffin usually dealt with that place when someone had to be on-site, but he was on extended medical leave. Brain cancer, poor guy. Glioblastoma. They weren't sure he would survive, let alone return to work any time soon.
He had been spending quite a bit of time at one of LeHavre's nuclear medicine facilities lately. The building was new, with a lot of empty office space, leaving room for expansion. He temporarily set up shop in an unused office next to one of the CT scanners.
He was an old hippie-turned-IT-guy, keeping a guitar within reach next to his desk. "You never know when a song idea might hit you," he said with a twinkle in his eye. From "everywhere and nowhere" as he put it, he settled in Nashville a couple decades ago hoping, like so many others, to make it in the country music business.
I once asked why he preferred this facility over the corporate office, and he said, "Home is where I hang my guitar. Besides, it's cool being in a brand-new building. Gives me a fresh perspective."
"Uh-huh," I smiled knowingly. "I'm sure the former swimsuit model receptionist out front has nothing to do with it."
"Hadn't noticed her," he laughed. "But here, at least, I don't have my name on the door. It's my little hideaway."
They assured him that his office was perfectly safe, but a routine inspection months later discovered that the CT scanner had been leaking radiation. The design of these rooms includes lead-lined drywall, doors, and observation windows to absorb radiation and ensure the safety of adjacent spaces. However, several sections of ordinary drywall were used in place of the lead-lined variety. Whether this was deliberate cost-cutting or simple human error remained unclear. What was clear was that Griffin had been soaking it in for months.
Tim would have been next man up to visit Darla's lab, but he was in a serious car accident a couple days prior and still recovering. That's when the conspiracy theories began. What happened to Tim was no accident, they said. And by "they" I mean Tim.
It was a warning. He knew too much.
I'm not quite the conspiracy theorist that Tim is, but don't dismiss them out of hand, either. Coincidence and conspiracies happen all the time. Some people don't believe in coincidence, but I do. Up to a point. As to conspiracies, unless it's personally affecting me, I don't generally care enough to theorize about it.
I had visited Griffin and Tim – on different floors of the same hospital – and the latter filled me in on the former's leaking CT scanner. Before I could make it clear to Tim that I didn't want to know anything – I want plausible deniability on everything that ever happened to anyone anywhere – he dragged me into their little secret.
He considered himself a witness and said I was one now, too. Any decent lawyer would quash our testimony as hearsay, but Tim insisted that was not true in this case because Griffin had told him in person. In bed, hooked into an IV drip, with one leg elevated as he was, I wasn't going to argue with him. On my way out, he said, "Give Darla a kiss for me."
"You can do it yourself," I tried to cheer him up, "after they let you out of here."
Before you start thinking how nice of me it was to visit them, you should know that I had ulterior motives. Sure, I came away from the visit hoping they'd be okay, but went in selfishly just to pick their brains because I had to cover for them at work until they returned or were replaced. I didn't get anything especially useful from either one of them.
Griffin's wife and sister were in Griffin's room as I made my rounds. The sister, Rachel, said they had grounds for a massive lawsuit. The wife – Dina, or something, I've already created a mental block – was on the phone the entire time, talking to lawyers, glaring at me like an uninvited guest.
I timed it right and caught Griffin while he was awake, which I was told was an increasingly rare state. Lying in bed, looking like hell – as people generally do when deathly ill – Griffin seemed pleasantly surprised to see me.
He gestured for me to come close. He could barely talk but felt the need to confide in me.
"I was hoping after all that radiation," he said between gasps, "I would have superpowers. You know, like Spiderman?" He then laughed so hard that his monitors began to shriek and nurses came rushing into the room.
"What did you say to him!?" the wife shrieked even louder than the alarms.
"Nothing," I shrugged. "He told a joke, started laughing, and you saw the rest."
She gave me an evil look and turned away.
Rachel had driven all the way from Colorado to be with her brother in his final moments. She said a line from one of his songs kept popping into her head: "Scatter my ashes where the road meets the sky."* She hoped to quote several such lines when the time came. I said that was a great line, and I wanted to participate, if possible.
The wife turned back and glared at me while Rachel and I spoke. I could feel her staring holes through me, but I never looked up to acknowledge it until I was leaving the room. Now, every time her image or voice creeps unwanted into my thoughts, I imagine her surrounded by flying monkeys and finishing every sentence with "and your little dog, too!"
Rachel and I exchanged numbers and I said it was a pleasure to meet her. The wife, not so much.
There's a traffic light at the entrance to our corporate office, and that's where Tim's accident occurred. Someone t-boned his car as he turned into the lot. Tim had the green light, but that was a moot point to everyone but the insurance company.
I drove past the wreckage as I entered the parking lot that morning, gawking like everyone else as I squeezed past the emergency vehicles, not knowing Tim was in the middle of all that. I should have recognized the gold Firebird artwork on the hood, but it didn't register at the time.
Tim's theory had it that someone in a fake Tennessee Department of Transportation (TDOT) uniform and vehicle – we'll call him T-Boner – had placed orange traffic cones in the right lane in front of our building to keep it clear. He then pulled his truck in behind those cones and waited. As Tim passed through the intersection, T-Boner punched the accelerator, plowed through the cones, and rammed Tim's car.
The official story was that the TDOT man had a heart-attack and reflexively slammed the accelerator, but the conspiracy theory was more fun and, as it turned out, the truth.
LeHavre was prepared to fly in Jules from Belgium to fix the problem at the lab. His last name was something unpronounceable, so everyone just called him Jules from Belgium. LeHavre-NA's boss, Miss Jessica Broyles – CEO, with a bunch of credentials after that – wanted me to try my luck at the lab before flying Jules in from across the Atlantic.
The facility was out in the sticks, near Ducktown and Turtletown, not far from Little Frog Mountain in the southeast corner of Tennessee. The Ocoee River runs through the area. Either way, it was a lot closer than Belgium.
I thought, "Road trip!" My biggest concern was which snacks to bring. I was so innocent back then... two months ago.
Miss Jessica ran into me in the building's cafeteria on the ground floor as I was tossing snacks onto my tray. Tim and Griffin called her Jessica Rabbit behind her back. I guess it was her curvaceous good looks, red hair, and maybe some men fantasize about female cartoon characters? I don't know. They are a lot less trouble than the real thing.
"Health nut, eh, Dub?" she nodded at my unhealthy snack choices. I slid my tray toward the cashier – a large, smiling middle-aged woman – along those steel tray rails that surround cafeteria food displays.
Miss Jessica touched my arm. Caressed it, really, when she said, "I was joking, Dub, but you can take the company jet. It has better snacks."
She puffed out her chest as she said it. Was she offering those as a snack? The Jessica Rabbit reference was making more sense.
"There's an airport near the facility," she said. When I looked surprised, she added, "A very small local airport. Easy to miss. I'll have someone down there pick you up. Your teammates are dropping like flies," she laughed – a bit too happily, I thought, but let it slide – "and I want to make sure you get there safely!"
I was tempted. Probably should have taken her up on it. But, with me and Cori not getting along, I was happy for an excuse to get out of town. Besides, I love a good road trip and wanted to impress Jessica with my concern for the company's bottom line.
I paid the cashier, entered the dining area, and began to look for an available table. "Fuel for the jet there and back," I said, "would cost ten times more than driving a few hours round-trip, even after you reimburse for gas."
I was sucking up – and try to avoid that – but might be moving up the company ladder, through attrition if nothing else. I had to play the game. "Ingratiating myself" sounds better. Let's go with that.
"Go for it!" she said. "But, if things get messy and you have to spend the night, there are motels nearby."
She squeezed my arm as I sat at an empty table, but remained standing herself. Definitely hitting on me. I don't mean to be conceited but some women find me attractive. I blame my parents. Either way, I got the impression she wanted me to punch her Mile High Club card.
"Just add it to your per diem," she continued, "but someone from the lab will most likely let you stay with them, free of charge. They really are some of the nicest people."
Darla came to mind, but I pushed it away. Didn't need that kind of trouble. Halfway down there, I was kicking myself for not taking the jet. When would I get another chance like that?
Sooner than expected, it turned out, but for all the wrong reasons.
The lab director, Brice – a bit younger than me, early 30s, of average height and build, with brown hair and mustache – greeted me in the lobby upon my arrival at the facility. Darla was noticeably absent.
He had me sign a waiver – which I didn't bother to read – and drop my phone into some sort of black bag. We then headed for the production line room. You hear about the heroes of the world running toward trouble. That was me: IT Man, leaping broken-down old computers in a single bound!
"What, no tour of the facility?" I joked as we made a bee line down the hall into the fray. Brice sneered.
Turning the corner and entering the room labeled Production: Authorized Personnel Only, we immediately put on hair nets, blue paper booties and latex gloves.
"What about masks?" I asked.
"Like the ones people wore during the so-called pandemic?" he sneered again in case I missed it the first time. "Those don't protect against viruses."
"You've got viruses in there?"
"Among other things, but everything is safely stored. When we're in production, everyone wears what you might call a hazmat suit. Otherwise, like now, it's safe. The hair nets and booties are to keep us from contaminating the area, not the other way around."
We entered the room and turned another corner. The signs everywhere saying "radioactive" and "hazardous" gave me the heebie-jeebies, but I powered through. We were then joined by another man. Black, with glasses, shorter and thinner than Brice, he was introduced as Harold.
Something felt off and it must've shown on my face. Brice and Harold exchanged a glance.
On cue, two huge, armed guards appeared behind us. Stealthy suckers. Grim. Unsmiling.
I had yet to meet any of these "nicest people" Jessica mentioned earlier. Brice was only minimally polite. Not even the receptionist was nice, and that's in her job description. It was kind of weird a place like this had a receptionist at all, but, whatever.
I gave the security guards a wary look. Brice assured me they were only going to keep an eye on me as they would with any visitor, but his assurances carried little weight. I've seen too many bad guys make people dig their own graves before putting a bullet in the back of their head. Okay, only in the movies, but it probably happens in real life.
I wasn't seriously worried about that, but it did cross my mind. They can keep their little secrets. My main concern was that I had never fixed this particular piece of hardware before, and didn't want to screw it up. This problem at the lab hadn't happened yet when I visited Griffin in the hospital, so couldn't ask him about it.
Still, the place gave me a gnawing sense of unease.
"I'll need to take notes," I made an excuse to gather my thoughts. "You got office supplies? Would've used my phone, but you had me drop it into that bag. What was that, anyway?"
"Faraday bag," Harold answered. "It blocks..."
"...electronic signals," I interrupted. "I'm familiar with Faraday. Just didn't recognize the bag in person."
Harold looked mildly offended.
"Sorry to interrupt," I apologized
Brice sighed deeply and gave directions to the office supplies while he and Harold stayed behind to talk.
On my return, notepad in hand, armed guard in tow, I tried to convince myself that everything they did here was legitimate. I've worked for the company a couple years now. I should be used to this, but it's one thing to know what kind of work your employer does, completely different being in the field, in person.
Brice and Harold were just around the corner from me, and I could hear them speaking in hushed tones, using words like dengue, Ebola and Marburg. Everyone's heard of Ebola, but I remembered those other two from biology class.
"It's crucial we get this fixed," Brice was saying.
I froze in my tracks. There was a convex mirror at the top of the corner wall. I backed up a few steps before they spotted me through that. Didn't want my hesitation to cause suspicion.
Even if this place was legitimate, did I want to be working for this sort of company? Not really, no. Dealing with biological specimens was bad enough, but if I saw any dogs or cats in cages, I was out of there... with as many of them as I could fit in the back of my car.
People like me can't up and quit, though. We have bills to pay. Until I win the lottery, I have to deal with whatever life throws at me. Only the wealthy can afford to be irresponsible.
Maybe my premonition was a reaction to the overly sanitized environment. I like a bit of mess to make me feel at home. There were no dirty Petri dishes in any of the sinks. No dirty laundry on the floor in the corner. I'm joking, but my guard was up. Alarm bells going off.
I came around the corner with a forced smile to meet the challenge. "Point me to the control panel."
Harold walked me over to a green metal box with red lettering standing in stark contrast to the room's otherwise white and stainless-steel décor. It was connected to the production line, among other things, through metal hoses and wires.
I dismantled the control box, disconnected things only to reconnect them – the reboot method – in case that magically fixed anything. It did not.
That's when Miss Jessica joined us. She must have flown down, after all. Harold took her arrival as his cue to leave.
I checked the control panel for blown fuses and whatnot, poking and prodding its innards with a multi-meter and voltage meter.
"Where do you keep this thing's spare parts?" I asked Brice. "It's got a blown fuse."
He gave me a look like something wasn't adding up. "Try the tool closet," he said finally.
"And that is... where?"
"Jimmy'll show you."
"And Jimmy is... where?"
Brice stayed behind as Jessica and one of the security guards escorted me to the administrative section of the building in search of Jimmy. We found him in a hallway amid rows of gray cubicles and walls adorned with lithographs of local wildlife interspersed with photographs of kayakers and canoeists navigating those famous Ocoee River rapids.
Jimmy, a middle-aged man of average height and build, with salt-and-pepper hair parted down the middle, walked with a rhythm to his gait, captivated by whatever he had coming through his ear buds. He made a move to go around us until Jessica stepped in front of him.
He smiled wide, happy to see that she wanted him for something. He pulled out one of his ear buds and left it dangling. Jessica nodded at me and let me explain the situation.
With considerably less enthusiasm for me than he had for Jessica, Jimmy listened to what I had to say. He nodded, gave Jessica one last smile, and led me to the tool closet.
I looked around but never caught sight of Darla. Jessica stayed put and chatted with a gaggle of employees who had gathered nearby. She had a rock star appeal, almost always the most attractive woman in the room, and her employees were her fans. That must be why she thought everyone was so nice. When you look like her, people tend to be nice... and invite you to stay the night.
Inside Jimmy's walk-in tool closet sat three full-height gym lockers, each with its own lock. It took him two seconds to work the combination and open the door.
I spotted the box of fuses and pointed at it. He gave me a look that said, No shit.
I gave a fake smile and look that I hoped conveyed, Just hand me the fuses, and I'll be on my merry way.
As Jessica and I – and the ever-present security guard – returned to the lab, she said, "Good news, bad news, Dub. Which one do you want to hear first?"
"Bad news first, always."
She nodded. "The bad news is that Griffin has died...."
"Oh no!"
"...and with Tim's recovery... there have been complications. He might not make it."
I nodded soberly.
"The good news is that you're being promoted, with commensurate title and salary bump... assuming you fix this thing."
That should have brought a smile but, given the circumstances, I just nodded.
Under Brice's close supervision – at least he wasn't looking down my shirt – I replaced the fuse and put everything back together. Twenty minutes after I began – yes, I timed myself – it all came back to life with a triumphant whir. The conveyor belt was conveying again.
"Problem solved," I crowed. "Nailed it. Mission accomplished. My work is done here."
With a dismissive exasperation, Brice scoffed, "You gonna dance a jig?"
"Fantastic!" Jessica was not afraid to show appreciation. She learned long ago that acknowledging and encouraging others' accomplishments was the right approach.
She hugged me without reservation. I returned the hug, but she felt a little too good up against me. Just the right height. She and I were a perfect fit. I broke away before it became obvious that I was enjoying this a little too much.
"Now, remember," she said in a motherly tone, wagging her finger, "you can't tell anyone anything about what you've seen here. Corporate espionage," she glanced around the room, "is a very real problem in our business."
Brice stood beside her, nodding, adding, "You might want to read the release form you signed when you came in."
"No, of course," I said but don't think either one of them believed me. My poker face needs work. "I'll cancel that 60 Minutes interview I had scheduled," I joked.
Jessica laughed politely while Brice of course sneered.
"We'll let Tony escort you out," she nodded at the closest security guard. Both of them towered over me, but Tony was tallest of all. I had him pegged as a Mongo, not a Tony, though. And Mongo is how I'll remember him when I look back and reminisce on our time together.
I nodded and smiled in his direction, like saying "nice doggy" to a snarling junkyard dog. He gave no response. I was extremely happy to be out of there – tempted to dance that jig on my way out – but felt the need for a certain decorum as I headed for the exit.
Mongo was right behind me. I had dubbed the other guard Gary. Not sure why, other than because Mongo and Gary sounded good together, like a morning radio duo. Gary was probably out in the woods now finding a good spot for me to dig that grave.
At the front desk, I asked the woman if I could have my phone back. I was going to be nice and say her name, but her nameplate read simply: RECEPTIONIST. She smiled thinly and said, "Name, please?"
I was fairly sure I was their only visitor that day, but gave my name and waited. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I was anxious to be on my way. I flashed a fake smile at Mongo scowling behind me.
That's when Darla appeared. She was a sight for sore eyes. Smiling that happy smile of hers. A ray of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day.
It was the first time I'd seen her all day, somehow missing her on my earlier excursions into the office area. I pulled her aside and whispered in her ear. Our closeness, like with Jessica earlier, had me more aroused than intended.
It must've been all the stress making me act like this. I mentioned my misgivings about the lab. Nothing specific, but a suspicious glance here, a sidelong glance there, a general feeling of something not kosher.
Nodding in the direction of the armed guard, I said, "I need to get out of here."
She gave a knowing look, stepped in behind the reception desk, pulled my phone out of that Faraday bag, smiled and handed it to me. Taking my arm, she said, "I knew I liked you! It's close enough to quittin' time. I'll go with you!"
The receptionist was still trying to look me up on her computer as Darla and I escaped out the front door. We took my car – coincidentally, an Escape – parked in a front row visitor spot, and Darla navigated us back onto the highway and toward her house.
I never noticed, but Mongo followed us in his own black SUV. Bad guys always drive black SUVs.
LeHavre's company jet was parked next to the terminal as we drove past the little airport Jessica mentioned. I never would have recognized the jet, but their name was on it. If I had a secret lab and private jet, I wouldn't have my name splashed across it, but that's just me.
Through more side roads and woods, we eventually ended up at her house. It was a small, one-story brick home painted white, with a red metal roof. A large swath of cleared land separated it from the surrounding woods, and most of that space was covered with freshly mowed lawn.
I wondered if she mowed it herself, or if I would soon be meeting the man of the house who did such chores. Inside, an elderly man with thick, white hair and the deep wrinkles of a lifelong smoker slept in a recliner in the living room. I saw no ashtrays and the house did not smell of cigarettes, so maybe I was wrong about his smoking. Either way, he seemed to be the only one home at the moment.
An old movie played on the big screen TV. The scene was at dusk along the side of a desolate road. Two men with guns and foreign accents were escorting another man, pleading for his life, into the nearby woods.
I stood, transfixed, convinced they were going to make him dig his own grave. What are the odds this would be the scene I would walk in on? Darla grabbed the remote and turned it off, breaking its spell over me.
I wanted to know what happened to that poor man, but when she pulled me into her bedroom and began to strip, I didn't complain about this latest plot twist.
"Nunh-uh," she said, seeing the look in my eyes. "I'm just changin' clothes, but didn't wanna leave you out there alone with Daddy. Mainly for his sake."
"Am I that scary?"
"You're not scary at all," she smiled seductively. "It's just so he don't wake up and shoot you. He keeps a gun under a pillow next to the remote."
"Ah," I said, as if that was normal. "But how is that for his sake?"
"He gets upset after he's killed someone, and I don't want him getting upset. His heart ain't what it used to be."
She smiled and stepped out of her pantsuit. "I don't wanna be over-dressed as we make our getaway."
"Our getaway?"
"We're in this together now, Dub. You and me, like Bonnie and Clyde. But, they make me dress up more than anyone else because I'm an executive assistant, while everyone else gets to wear jeans. Anyways, seeing me in my underwear is no different than seeing me on the beach."
"It is when we're alone in the bedroom," I smiled. "And, spoiler alert, Bonnie and Clyde did not live happily ever after."
She forced a frown, but her eyes were smiling. She looked even better in blue jeans and a simple peach blouse. Some women look better dressed up, some when dressed down.
I tried to find something, anything other than her to stare at. The curtains were open, so I looked out the window into the backyard. Something there made me do a double take. It looked like lawn furniture had been blown to bits, and I asked about it.
"That's Daddy's doing," she laughed. "He likes to blow things up. Yeah, sometimes I worry our house won't be here when I get home, but he's taught me everything I know about explosives. I can undo whatever he's done... if it's not already too late."
"Useful skill," I nodded.
Pulling a small suitcase out of the closet, she brought a couple blouses and slacks down off their hangers. The slacks were placed at the bottom in the suitcase, the blouses folded neatly and set aside. Lugging it out to the dresser, she pulled a couple days' worth of undergarments out of their drawers and dropped them into the bag before placing the blouses on top.
"You have great taste in... underthings," I joked, uncomfortable. There aren't many things in life better than being in the same room with an attractive woman taking off her clothes, but I was a married man. Not very happily lately, but I took those vows seriously.
"Feel free to borrow some," she offered.
"Nah, it looks much better on you."
My vows never said I couldn't flirt.
She turned away – blushing – and went to the adjoining master bathroom. Collecting mouthwash, toothbrush and other toiletries, she dropped it into a smaller zip-up bag. She then went back for a bottle of perfume, sprayed herself, and added it to that bag.
She handed me the suitcase – which I accepted like a hotel porter – and followed her into the living room.
"Don't forget your secret stash," I said.
"How could I forget! Wait, how'd you know...?"
"I thought I was joking," I shrugged.
Reaching into the hall closet, up high, her blouse rose up and I caught a glimpse of her lower back. It was nice, increasingly rare these days, to see a woman's lower back free of tattoos.
That sounded creepy. I just meant I'm not a fan of tattoos, not that I expected to see even that much of her again.
She brought down her "go bag," a leather briefcase, and lost her balance. I caught her with my free arm and wrapped it around her waist. I was tempted to throw her onto the bed, and I'm pretty sure she would have let me.
Something I do when resisting the allure of another woman – and it's necessary more often than I would like to admit – is to picture my wife Cori next to me, smiling. That's it, but it works like a charm. Keeps me out of trouble.
Holding onto Darla now – longer than I had to, but she wasn't complaining – I set down that first piece of luggage and took the briefcase into my other hand.
"Hold that, too," she smiled, as if she had everything under control, and I guess she did.
"Yes, ma'am."
She returned to the living room, pulled her father's handgun out from under the pillow and dropped it into her go bag.
"Daddy, wake up," she nudged him. "We need to leave."
Sure enough, his first move was to reach for the gun that was no longer there. I was not happy about this becoming a party of three, but we couldn't leave the man behind, trigger-happy or not.
Awake now, we helped him to his feet.
"Does he have a walker or cane?" I asked as I looked around.
"Don't need none of that," he grumbled, eyeing me suspiciously. "Who are you?"
"Daddy, be nice. This is my friend Dub I've told you about."
She's been telling her father about me?
"Well, if it isn't the famous Dub," he said. "What's your last name?"
"Wagner."
"Any relation to Robert, the actor?"
"Not that I know of, but I might be related to Wagner, the German composer."
He shook his head, as if he had never heard of the man.
"We need to skedaddle," Darla said with some urgency, "like, right now."
"Wait!" he shouted. "My teeth!"
"They're in your mouth, Daddy."
He ran his tongue over his teeth and said, "Ah, so they are. Well, alrighty then." To me, he confided, "Don't never want to forget your teeth."
"Yeah, I hate when that happens."
Hey, just trying to make a living.
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