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Part 5-24: Mayflower
The three of us sat around the kitchen table, Fergus avoiding our eyes, on account of him not being able to recognize eyes anymore.
“If I leave, I’m not sure I can trust that our lobsters will be sustained,” said Deluxe.
“They’re going to come, and they’re going to make us leave. That much seems clear,” I said.
“I’ll lobster-sit,” offered Fergus. “Unless you think they’ve pegged me too?”
Deluxe leaned her head in her hands. “Hard to say. Hard to say.”
“It’s our best bet,” I said, smiling at Fergus. My lips twitched and reversed their direction when I remembered that he couldn’t tell I was doing that. A blushing anger at this limitation scratched in my cheeks, followed by a blushing embarrassment—no no, now was not the time for that, I told myself.
“What about the books? We have one, probably two left to go,” asked Fergus.
“Persi, perhaps,” said Deluxe. “In a moment, I’ll work on transmitting a secure package to the Lotus, and setting up a way to relay with it, since she’s the current custodian. It may be the last bastion of a technical platform once the condo is compromised. But the office building itself…”
“Crawling with these feds, or whatever. Probably,” I said. At least the damn gang would be keeping its distance.
“She got out like a greasy ninja… maybe she can get back in?” suggested Fergus.
“Sure, but Eden’s door is not likely being left alone. They’d marked it, remember?”
“Distraction, diversion,” said Deluxe. “Problem is it may only work once.”
“My new tricks can probably help on those fronts.” I imagined recruiting a pack of alley dogs to perhaps clear the fifth floor hallway up for a few precious moments.
“But the books do seem to need me around to work,” said Fergus.
“Oh, shit. Right.” I pulled at a tuft of hair. This just got more complicated by the minute. Had to: avoid capture by secret agents, sneak into building guarded by small army, swap books, sneak book out to Fergus.
“You don’t suppose Sir Dickweed might be able to help us out at all, hey?” chuckled Fergus.
“We might be able to see if we can go back through the green book,” I said, thinking out loud. “See if anything can be done to spookify the hallway or something? Maybe?” Why didn’t I feel weird about asking The Minder to help out? I hoped it was only because of desperation. Or exhaustion. I tapped the Queen’s Band with my nail in quick, choppy triplets.
“You two plan,” said Deluxe. “I’ll start the configuration for the Lotus and also think on some strategies. We may yet have some time here as the Terradyne woman only mentioned an advancement of a timetable, correct Alena?”
“Move it up twenty four hours, she said.” I licked my lips. “If she meant to take us right away, or even soon, would that even make sense to say?”
“Possibly not, but assume nothing for sure. For all we know, it was purely a code with an entirely nonparallel meaning.” Deluxe slid her chair back, then froze as our condo buzzer chimed.
It took a second for my heart to drop out of my throat. Fergus beat me to the thought: “Persi?”
“Too quick,” said Deluxe, and skipped to the living room.
“Agents wouldn’t ring, right?” I said, getting up to follow her. Our building had a camera at the front door, and we could access the feed from a special channel on the television.
Deluxe found the remote as Fergus and I clambered in to see. She switched on the TV and keyed in the channel. The picture was colour-drained and from a classic high angle, but there was no mistaking the girl standing in front of our building.
“Okay, you two,” I said. “Be honest here. Which of you were secretly thinking ‘this can’t get any worse?’ I almost thought it but didn’t quite get there. So this ain’t on me.”
Fergus scoffed a little chuckle, but Deluxe only rounded on me, wide-eyed.
“Who is that woman, Alena? Do you know her?”
I bit back mad, bitter laughter as the girl glared at the intercom box on the wall. Her long black hair was pulled back into a tight braid, designer sunglasses perched almost vertically on her head. A big pink designer duffel bag lay on its side by her feet, and she swung an equally pink designer purse back and forth in the hand that wasn’t occupied with an extra large frappuccino. Tiny jean shorts and a tank top clung tight under an unzipped, cropped leather jacket—she dared the cool spring evening climes to defy her.
“Do I know her?” I said. “Sure! That right there is Miss Mayflower Saint-Germain, though she prefers ‘Maive.’ But I personally always thought Sparky McBitchtits was an overall better fit. We’ve agreed to disagree.”
The buzzer sounded again, then once more for good measure as our guest’s patience dwindled.
“She sounds fun?” ventured Fergus.
“The boys always seemed in consensus on that one, alright,” I said. “But trust me. It’s best to experience my baby sister in small, controlled doses.”
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