Project Enterprise (3 page)

Daniels sat down opposite her again.

“You said Redding brought you gifts,” he began.

“Was that his name?” It seemed important to know his real name, though she couldn't have said why.

“Oscar Redding. What kind of gifts did he bring you, ma'am?”

“I wish you'd call me Jilly,” she said, then wished the words back. This wasn't a social occasion and he wasn't her friend, even if he acted like he was. He was good cop and it was his job to trap her into admitting she'd killed—Oscar.

His smile warmed the cold places inside her, even if it shouldn't.

“Jilly. The gifts?”

“Flowers. Chocolates. Jewelry—nothing expensive. Trinkets. Like charms related to my books.”

“Flowers. Any special kind?”

“Usually a mix of types, the kind of thing you could pick up at the grocery store.”

“Not your favorite flower?”

Jilly frowned. “I didn't really have one.” That wasn't true, but the flower she saw in her mind existed only in her novels. It was a lovely, waxy red, the color of her door and her toenails and the scent, she didn't know how to describe its scent. It—soothed. She'd missed it when—when what? How could she miss something that didn't exist? Why did she sometimes feel homesick for a place that wasn't real? She rubbed her temples again.

“You have a headache, ma'am, sorry, Jilly?” He looked worried.

He did good cop very well.

“I'm fine.” She didn't want to like him. She wouldn't like him. He was just playing her and he wouldn't tell her why.

He studied her, as if considering what to tell her, but he was really doing it to break her.

“We found some flowers scattered around on the ground in a clearing back there.” He nodded toward her back yard. “And we found his car parked just off the freeway on a dirt road. I figure he was coming to see you.”

She shook her head. “No, not to see me, not dressed like that. If he was planning on seeing me, he'd have been dressed like Jusan, my character.”

Daniels straightened. “You think maybe he meant to leave the flowers?”

“Yeah, I do.” She rubbed her face. “He wouldn't realize how creepy that would be. He'd probably think he was being thoughtful.” She hesitated. “I had mentioned I'd moved in my blog. Maybe it was a—house warming gift.”

“Did you know he worked for a company that makes experimental weapons?”

She had a feeling the question was supposed to shock her.

“I didn't even know his real name.” She hesitated. “I suppose on some level I knew he had a job. I mean, he bought me stuff, but not expensive stuff. I might have vaguely thought he was a computer geek or something. When I thought about him. Which wasn't that often.” She rubbed her face again. “I had lots of fans. Some of them also give me things.”

“Like what?” He looked curious. No more, no less.

“Pillows and tee shirts with my book covers silk screened on them. Souvenirs from their vacations. Plush toys. Space toys. It was—sweet. Friendly.”

“You've written four books, but the stuff in your garage, it didn't look like a lot of stuff?”

Jilly felt pain stab her temples again. She fought the urge to rub the spots.

“When I finish a book, I hold a contest for most of it. It clears the decks. It's something I can give back to my fans. Might even be valuable when I'm dead.”

“Do they keep it?”

“Some do. I've seen some of it turn up on eBay.” Tiredness tugged at her concentration. She'd been up early writing. “I've donated a few things to charity auctions and they've done pretty well. They're unique. More valuable since I hit the NYT.”

“NYT?”

“
New York Times
bestseller list. I was on there with J.K. Rowling.” A few books down, but still there. She couldn't hold back the smile or the thrill it still gave her to remember seeing her name there with Rowling's.

“Cool.” His smile took some of the edge off her headache. “Did anyone come with Redding to your book signings?”

She frowned, thinking back. Finally she shrugged. “It's hard to say. People visited while they waited in line. I was usually busy talking to the person in front of me. Readers are mostly friendly. They don't just talk the the book they are getting, but about other books they like. I can hear them. If you like this novel, then you might like this one. And some of them knew each other online, but not always in person.” She looked at him. “I'm sorry.”

He leaned forward. “Let's assume that Redding's death in your yard is a coincidence, Jilly. That it's about that weapon and not you. He's coming by to leave you a house warming gift before he goes off to the
Trek
convention downtown.”

“That's easy, since it's true. I'm not involved.”

A quick smile from him. He shifted, leaning toward her, though he didn't move closer.

“He starts through the woods and runs into—something to do with that weapon.”

“Something?”

“It—appears whoever was in that clearing was shooting it. There were scorch marks on several trees. And the ferret.”

“The ferret?”

“The weapon appears to have a stun setting. They stunned the ferret.”

“That's pretty cold. It would still hurt, and the pain lingers for several hours.”

Daniels looked at her, blinking slowly. “How would you know that?”

It was Jilly's turn to blink. “I guess I don't. That's actually what mine does. In my book. Sorry.”

“Right.” He paused, as if collecting the threads of his story. “Suppose Redding recognizes someone or several people in the clearing? There's some—confusion, maybe. Possibly even two of the weapons.”

“How could you tell?”

“The scorch marks on the trees, leading to your house. They go both ways and are of varying heights. I think Redding—and someone—took one of the weapons. Redding gets shot and someone—breaks into your garage. He or she sees your replica and makes the switch, then leaves.”

Jilly studied him for a moment. “Clever. You could be a novelist, Agent Daniels.”

“Call me Rick.”

Was his smile friendlier than the last one? More—intimate?

“Rick.” As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. It forged a link between them that she liked too much—and that made panic flutter in the back of her throat.

She had to get away. It was the only way, they said.

Who were they? Four books and she still wasn't sure. She just knew she had to keep pushing toward it, toward them, whoever they were. When she found out, she wouldn't be worried anymore. She wasn't afraid. Just worried. She didn't need to be afraid.

Well, not until a man died in her back yard and she got invaded by—whoever these guys were. She might need to be afraid now.

“The other story is the one where you're in the clearing, getting classified equipment and that our arrival was—unfortunate.”

“That one isn't as well developed. If I'd been running from the clearing, wouldn't I have been out of breath when I answered the door?”

“That's why I didn't spend as much time on it,” Rick said, looking a bit wry. “Hitchens likes that one, though.”

“Hitchens being the man in black.” As soon as she said the words, she felt a shiver of something dance down her spine, helped by the slight twitch Rick gave at her words. “Now that I know his name, will you have to shoot me?”

She kept her voice light and ironic, to hide her sudden, possibly rational fear.

Rick looked puzzled. “Shoot you?”

“He implied even his name is classified,” Jilly prompted.

“Oh, right. My bad.” Then he grinned, looking remarkably unrepentant. Did that mean he was actually the one in charge? “So…”

He stopped, met her gaze with a steady but determined one.

“So, Fyn and I are going to stay here. We don't want you to be alone if someone comes back here looking for the weapon. And if they do, we'd really like to meet them.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then we'd have to assume you're part of it and—arrest you.”

“Right.” She found herself wanting to smile when she should be angry. Furious maybe. “Then I guess you can stay.”

When he got up and walked over to Hitchens, she wondered why they were letting her stay. But she didn't really have to ask it. It was obvious they didn't really trust her. And it had started long before they found a dead man in her yard and a working space gun in her garage.

H
itchens
and his boys melted away, taking the body and leaving the ferret. They'd wanted to take the ray gun, too, but Rick needed bait. If the killer was watching the house and had seen them arrive, he wouldn't be back, not even for a ray gun. But it was possible whoever had switched the guns had led the chase away from the house. It was even possible he or she got clear. Or got caught and talked.

Either way, someone would be back to make the switch or they'd be in contact with Jilly.

Before Hitchens left, they'd wired the place from stem to stern. An ant wouldn't be able to pass gas without them knowing it. If they'd had more time—but time seemed to be the one thing they didn't have. Events had moved rather quickly since he and Fyn arrived to scope out a possible alien.

And Rick still didn't know the answer to
that
question. And, worse, still didn't know how to find out.

For the first time, he wondered why they'd sent him. And why Fyn?

When they went out to their car to add some armament, Rick asked Fyn.

He was quiet for a long time—no surprise that. The surprise came when he spoke. In whole sentences.

“There is evidence that some of the Garradians had,” he hesitated, “nanites in their bodies. Among other things, they—communicate with each other.”

“Okay.”

Another silence.

“I have some. I was injured during the battle with the Dusan. Nanites were used to heal me. If she had them, I should have sensed them.”

Rick didn't even have an okay in him. Felt more like a
hot damn.
But he wasn't confident enough to say it out loud.

“Does that mean she's
not
Garradian?”

“No.” Fyn gave him a look. “Just means she doesn't have nanites.”

“Do you think she is?” He'd spent a lot of time staring at her. He must have an opinion.

“Sara thinks she is.”

His wife thought Jilly was Garradian. He almost asked why her opinion mattered more than, oh, everyone else's, but somehow couldn't. Maybe it was that surge of menace that flared in a gaze already fully loaded with threat that did it.

“Then she's a really good liar,” Rick muttered, more to himself than to Fyn.

“Maybe she doesn't know.”

Rick looked at Fyn while he considered the words and the implication: that Fyn didn't think she was lying either. It was kind of a relief but also disturbing. How could she write about the Garradian history and not know it was real? Even though he had a pretty wide definition of weird that was pushing it.

“I don't see how,” he said, again more to himself.

Fyn shrugged. Maybe he'd just run out of words. He tucked his ray gun into his waistband and covered it with his tee shirt. He picked up his night vision goggles and handed the other pair to Rick.

A few hours ago, Fyn and his armament had seemed like overkill. Now Rick wondered if they'd brought enough.

J
illy cooked
them all some dinner, not because cooking was her thing or to be friendly. Mostly she needed something to do with her hands. She longed to be sitting at her computer. She longed to be alone to
think
.

Her mind wanted to flash back to the space gun, the way it had felt in her hand. She should have realized it wasn't the mock-up. Now she remembered the mock-up was a lot lighter, but at the time, it hadn't felt wrong. What was even stranger, when it fired it had surprised her, but—not. She had this vision of standing next to someone—Kamen—and he was pointing to a black mark just like the one on her garage. Who was Kamen and why did he seem not made up? Why could she see a screen with what looked like specifications for the weapon on it? It felt weird to even think in terms of specifications. She was an author, a former librarian. Not a weapons specialist.