The Whole Truth (The Supercharged Files Book 1) (27 page)

It was, after all, his job.

“Orgasm,” I said, and his
eyebrows quirked, “does not turn it off. Does it turn yours off?”

“Nope.”

“Is that normal?”

“It is for us.” We shared a
moment of communion that went beyond our agreement to set aside whatever lay
between us. It went beyond finding out there was a whole world of supras
waiting for me to be a part of it.

I really wasn’t alone anymore. I
had an elemental us.

“Can you read lies?” I asked.

“Not like you can.”

“Will you sit in the dunking
booth?”

“I will do just about anything if
it ensures your cooperation.”

He didn’t make it sound sexual,
which was a bit of a disappointment. “Will you tell me why you ran a fade?”

“Except that. And a few other
things.” When I opened my mouth to suggest some of them, he held up a finger.
“But I will sit in your dunking booth.”

“Then I will tell you what you
want to know.”

“And no, Cleo, I’m not mad at
you,” Beau said. “I just don’t like to get my hair wet.”

~ * ~

I have never worked harder in my
life than the week before YuriCorp’s ironically named Employee Appreciation
Day.

Once I gave Lou my dunking booth
culprits, I thought I’d be free, but she kept cornering me. I cowered whenever
I smelled White Shoulders. Cleo, call that weather-sensing supra and see if
it’s going to rain, I don’t trust the norms on the TV. Cleo, make sure you come
to the farm early on Saturday and help decorate the trees. Cleo, I’ve signed
you up to find lost kids in the corn maze, make sure you wear comfy shoes.
Cleo, fetch Uncle Herman a half gallon of milk and one of those bakery pies on
the way home. All of this with the light flicker of ulterior motive masking her
face, which made me even more reluctant to be sucked into the Lou Machine.

I didn’t have time to be Lou’s
flunkie. She had a whole squad to order around like the drill sergeant of fried
chicken. And that was just at YuriCorp. Her vast family had also been enlisted
since the picnic was at their farm. From the sound of it, either they had no
other employment or she’d made them take the week off.

First I had the confidential
binder of employee relationship analysis. Then I had Al’s cross reference chart
that made about as much sense as calculus. The depth of information YuriCorp
kept on file about their employees put the government to shame.

Under the pretext of party
planning, Al and Yuri treated me to lunch twice in various secure locations as
they crash-coursed me in data retrieval, aka spying. I don’t know if the new
tactics rubbed off or what, but when I quizzed YuriCorp employees about their
intended picnic guests, it bore fruit. I enlarged the bulging confidential
files by a fourth.

Unfortunately, I didn’t learn
anything that ended the mole hunt, but I did shrink the suspect roster to a
manageable list of suspicious characters. I concentrated on certain facts. Who
had talents that could squeeze loved ones for information? Who had tried to get
hired here, been fired from here, or resented their spouse’s long work hours?
Who might have a grudge against the company?

Who was a computer genius capable
of infiltrating our systems despite Yuri and Al’s insistence we were hacker
free?

I figured I knew what more supras
could do now than the Registry. Okay, maybe not the Registry. My knowledge was limited
to middle Tennessee supras. But I’d amassed quite the index of supra skill
sets. Most were uni-sensors with some bi-sensors for variety. I was the only
tri-sensor. Touch talents led the pack—chameleons, mostly—with sensitivities in
taste and smell running a close second.

Since most of my new suspects
didn’t work for YuriCorp, I had no reason to approach them during the week. I
had to hope they’d show at the farm Saturday or I’d be hawking magazines door
to door yet.

Memorization was afternoons and
evenings. Unlike before, I now preferred mornings. Not only was I Lou-free in
the lab, but my truce with Beau held as we plunged into a new round of tests.
We were careful to hide what we were doing from Jolene and the others, and he
never once mentioned sending his analysis to the Registry. He also lied as
frequently, or infrequently, as before our détente, which made me wonder if
he’d been careful around me from the first or if he was truly an honest person.

Being in cahoots with Beau
instead of at odds with him improved my YuriCorp experience. Greatly. He was so
geeked about what I could do and all the cool tests he got to run, he was
complimentary several times. The tests did not involve my orgasm-immunity to my
dismay, I mean, my relief.

In fact, the three things we
never touched on were that aspect of my ability, the status of my love life,
and the fact everyone at the company had mysteriously forgotten the sexy that
was Beau Walker. When I reminded Samantha, she looked at me like I was nuts and
went back to discussing which bathing suit she should wear in the dunking
booth.

Speaking of my love life, John, in
California for the week, texted me so much throughout the day I turned my cell
off during work hours. If anyone were desperate to find me, they could go
through the office phone system. Learning he’d had kettle corn as a snack and
it reminded him of me was distracting. Learning he couldn’t wait to see me was
cringe-inducing. My guilt and confusion about our relationship would have
bogged me down if I’d had time to allow it.

When he asked if I missed him, I
said I did.

How often, and how casually, I
lied to people, from the woman who was my closest friend, to my boss, to the
man who wanted me to be his girlfriend. I lied to them all. If they’d had my
ability, maintaining relationships would have been trying. Difficult. Horrible.
The enforced honesty would have poisoned everything.

I’d always imagined having
friends who knew would be this huge breakthrough. I’d be able to open my arms
and let the world in. Instead, it added a layer of difficulty to interactions
that were already complex, a layer of angst and twistiness. With some, like
Yuri and Al, it was easier because we didn’t have a personal relationship. With
others, knowing I was a challenge to be around was hard to bear. I’d taken my
burden and transferred it to them—but it hadn’t relieved the weight on my own
shoulders.

It just exhausted us all.

Chapter 20

Baseball, Hot
Dogs, Apple Freakin’ Pie

Lou instructed me no less than
six times to come to the picnic early Saturday. Something about filling the
dunking booth and memorizing the corn maze Yuri had used his green thumb to
speed-grow to a proper height.

I didn’t comply. Lou had her
family to decorate trees and unfold tables, and I had no intention of helping
with the maze. I needed to finalize my suspect cheat sheet. I’d tried to
complete it last night, but John got in from California and I’d spent a while
on the phone, persuading him not to rush over. The last thing I needed at the
picnic was to be exhausted and partially sexed out of my ability.

I hadn’t been sleeping well all
week due to stress and what sounded like a budding robotics factory in Uncle
Herman’s apartment. He’d never been a quiet neighbor, considering he listened
to his television at maximum volume and more rock music than you might expect
for a senior citizen, but he’d had to pick this week to construct his own
killer cylon. Bleeps and bloops and high pitched whines pierced our shared wall
at all hours. I slipped a couple notes under his door begging him to tone it
down, but the old coot cranked it up instead.

The morning of the picnic,
stifling big yawns and nervous butterflies with instant coffee, I printed my
coded list in a tiny notebook with a tiny pen to check off people who weren’t
bad guys. Using the espionage trick suggested by Al of “always have a
legitimate reason to be there”, I was going to be taking notes for a corporate
newsletter.

I’d have to compile an actual
newsletter if I remained with YuriCorp, but that was okay. I was the one who’d
complained when they’d forced me to quit expressing my creative side in my
blog.

When the phone rang, I let it go
to the answering machine. Could be John, could be Lou. Madame Lampey had to
have something up her sleeve to explain her fixation on me, but I hadn’t pried.
Prying took time, and anyone in Lou’s orbit more than a few seconds this week
found themselves still there hours later, wondering what had happened to the
day. With the way Lou kept mentioning her nephews, all evidence pointed to matchmaking,
though she seemed happy I was dating John instead of that little chameleon
nobody liked.

Hey, Lou’s words, not mine.

Though I hadn’t cooperated with
Lou’s request to show up at the crack of dawn Saturday, I had agreed to give
Uncle Herman a ride to the farm when I did come. His license had been revoked
after an incident nobody would even lie to me about.

“You look like crap,” the old man
said, peering through a narrow crack in his door. “Are you a druggie?”

“No, Herman. I don’t do drugs.”
Not counting the ibuprofen I’d consumed this morning to combat the low-grade
headache that had plagued me since Thursday. “I haven’t slept well. Can you
believe it? My neighbor has been really noisy.”

“A likely story.” With a cane
hooked over his arm, he slipped out his door quickly, as if there were a cat on
the other side trying to escape. I knew that maneuver well.

I accepted the heavy duffel he
shoved at me with what I felt was good grace, all things considered. As he
locked his door, I juggled the duffel and my purse. The duffel’s canvas strap
bit into my shoulder as we made our way to the parking lot. “What’s in here, gold
bars?”

“Stuff I need, Miss Nosy. We were
supposed to be there three hours ago,” he complained when I unlocked the
passenger door of my Volkswagen.

“I warned you I was running
late.” I popped the trunk and stashed Herman’s bulky satchel.

“Be careful with that, missy,
it’s fragile.”

Fragile as a ton of bricks.

He frowned as he peered into the
back seat. “Where are the pies?”

“I wasn’t on the food committee.”
I was on the little-known espionage committee.

“You couldn’t even make a brownie
pie? Well, it needs a crust. Pie’s not pie without a crust. And fruit. Pie’s
not pie without a crust and fruit.”

 “Crust and fruit. Got it.” I
waited for Herman to get in the car, but instead he hobbled toward the front.
“What are you working on in your apartment this week, Herman? Sounds like
you’ve got a Moog synthesizer over there. Are you in a band?”

He whacked my front tire with his
cane, checking its soundness. “A new-fangled vacuum cleaner that runs itself,”
he lied, but because he was limping around the front of my car, I couldn’t see
specifics. “My kids think I need to hire a maid. Why should a perfectly healthy
man pay somebody else to clean? I can do it myself, I told them, so they got me
this ridiculous vacuum.”

A maid might have fled in terror
from Herman’s apartment. The old guy was a hoarder of crap. Newspapers, boxes
of old computer parts, dirty tools, books, broken toasters and other detritus
were stacked in tottering heaps all over the front room, the only one I’d
glimpsed whenever I’d dropped off groceries. I had no idea where a robot vacuum
could find floor space to clean, but he’d been lying about the vacuum.

Maybe I should let Lou know he might
be senile. I hadn’t been around anyone with memory loss like Alzheimer’s and
had no idea how their masks would behave.

Herman yanked the handle of the
driver’s side door. “We’re late already, quit fooling around. I need in.”

“This is your seat.” I indicated
the passenger’s side. “As I understand it, you don’t have a valid license.”

“Horse’s ass.” Herman didn’t
argue, thank goodness, he just hobbled around the back, making sure to wallop
the tires, and got in.

Of course, with as many
directives as he gave me on the ride to the farm north of Nashville, it might
have been easier if I’d let him behind the wheel.

~ * ~

Samantha huddled on the seat of
the dunking booth like a wet rat. Her hair clung in thin tendrils to her face,
and her makeup had washed off fifty-seven immersions ago. The line of employees
waiting to sink her was longer than the line of employees at Lou’s grand
buffet.

If she hadn’t been obviously
loving it, I’d have enjoyed it even more. Some friend I am.

“You call that a pitch?” she
hollered at Roxanne Spivey, whose final cast had gone too far to the right. “I
thought you had magic hands!”

“If you hit me with one of those
wild pitches, I’ll sue,” Uncle Herman added. He’d set up shop in the white
gazebo near the dunking booth and added his commentary to Samantha’s. He’d
tried to send me to refresh his pie and iced tea earlier, but I’d deflected the
errand to a random Lampey since I was occupied.

Roxanne checked with me, and I
waggled the small placard hanging around my neck that said, “Dunk for Dogs.” We
were selling three balls for five bucks. All proceeds went to a local no-kill
animal shelter. Roxanne had already bought six.

“You throw like a sissy!”
Samantha yelled. “Give it up, Casey Jones.”

“Casey Jones was a batter.”
Roxanne dug into her pocket for money. “Three more, Cleo.”

We swapped dollars for softballs.
The dunking booth was at the far end of the immense yard, near the gazebo and
concrete pond. No, really, a concrete pond. It was stocked with fish. The
children’s inflatables, pony rides, sprinklers, and other entertainments that
merited much shrieking were between the pond and the creek. I hadn’t seen the
maze but it was near the back forty. Lou had somebody running hayrides there on
the hour.

The massive buffet was near the
house. Pavilion tents shading tables and chairs dotted the grounds, and the
trees were festooned with crepe paper and random piñatas. Supposedly one of the
barns was wired with big screen televisions and a video arcade, but since there
were three outbuildings, I wasn’t sure which. The grass was as smooth and thick
as a golf course, and flowers bloomed everywhere—in pots, in the ground, and a
couple in Lou’s hair, though I’d only seen her briefly upon arrival.

She’d given me a nasty snort—some
thanks for putting up with Uncle Herman—and sent me to the dunking booth
without even a peek at the buffet.

Despite its size, Lou’s farm was
no longer a working farm, though it did have fish, dogs, cats, horses,
chickens, ducks, geese, a garden, and a large enough herd of cattle that they
could receive a tax write-off. Samantha had attracted such a crowd that the
dunking booth turned out to be the perfect place to question suspects. I didn’t
have to seek anyone out; they all came to me and handed me cash.

And then I crossed them off the
list, as well as their families, due to lack of proof and solid alibis. It was
progress...of a sort.

“I noticed your mom and dad here
today,” I said to Roxanne. “My stepfather couldn’t make it.” Roxanne’s parents,
both supras, had been in the peace corps in the sixties. They weren’t on my
roster but it never hurt to ask. “What do they do for a living?”

“Retired. They’re usually off
somewhere in the RV. They just got back from three months in Canada.” Which
ruled them out as the saboteurs, unless the RV lifestyle was their front for
criminal activities.

Roxanne tossed the ball up and
down, eyeing the target that would send Samantha and her big mouth into the
murky tank. “If I give you an extra five bucks, can I step up to the kid’s
line?”

“Sure!” I stuffed the additional
money into my apron pocket. Ten minutes before Samantha and I were done here
and could work the crowd. Beau was due to be dunked next. If he bailed on me, I
was going to be pissed. There was no telling what I’d have to promise Alex to
handle the extra turn but I couldn’t stay here all day. I had suspects to grill.

Roxanne, with an evil smile,
strode forward several paces and took aim.

“You’ll never do it!” Samantha
yelled, her hands cupped around her mouth. “Not even from the baby line. Miss
it, miss it, miss it!”

“Hit it, hit it, hit it!” chanted
the waiting crowd.

Uncle Herman cackled in
counterpoint to it all.

Jolene, who was going to sell
Beau’s tickets, popped up by my elbow with a giant plate of summer salads,
fried chicken, potatoes, corn bread and fruit. “Your boyfriend’s not here yet,”
she said. “He’s probably still at work, the stinker.”

“He’s here. He’s helping Lou.”
John had been roped into pouring iced tea at the buffet. Although we’d seen one
another from afar and he’d cast me a longing glance, we hadn’t had time for a
tete a tete. Partly due to my schedule. Mostly due to my avoiding him. “He got
back from California last night.”

Jolene gave me a strange look. “I
meant Beauregard.”

I thought it best not to correct
her misassumption, though she was the only person at YuriCorp who didn’t know
about me and John. Several women, instead of being hateful like when I’d
“dated” Beau, had congratulated me on landing the elusive Mr. Arlin.

I accepted their praise, asked
who they’d brought to the picnic, and followed up with gosh that’s nice, what
did their families do for a living?

“Jolene, where’s my pie?” Uncle
Herman asked. Jolene ignored him. Considering she put up with Beau on a daily
basis, ignoring Herman was no sweat. Beau had been his version of pleasant
lately, but lately didn’t count.

Roxanne blew all three tosses and
conceded in disgust, Samantha heckling her with creativity and abandon. I
wouldn’t have lasted past three attempts. There was a long line, and it was too
warm to be standing around exerting oneself without the satisfaction of dunking
Samantha.

“Next!” I yelled.

A thirty-something guy who looked
familiar handed me a twenty. I couldn’t place him. One of YuriCorp’s road
warriors?

Jolene made it easy for me. “Hi,
Clinton,” she said, cheeks bulging. “Glad you could make it.”

“Keep the balls coming,” he said,
with a dark glare at Samantha.

Was there a Clinton on my list?

“I see another loser!” Samantha
wrapped her fingers around the edge of the dunking platform and leaned forward.
“If your aim’s as bad as your singing, I’m going to jump in the water myself.
I’m drying out up here. Can’t anybody get me w— Eek!”

Clinton’s first shot pegged the
target, and Samantha plummeted like a rock.

The crowd burst into applause.

Clinton, Clinton, who was... Oh,
right. My studies in employee relationship trees came to my rescue. Clinton aka
Clint McAdams, former boyfriend of Samantha Graves. Currently employed by the
Lampey PI firm and dating Jolene’s daughter Rachel, a salesperson in the
downtown office.

Clint McAdams, who’d been
pummeled by Alex Berkley my first night at Merlin’s.

Clint McAdams, who’d been
described by Samantha as having issues.

Clint McAdams, who was on my
list.

Time to make the doughnuts.

When I didn’t hand Clint another
softball because I was trying to decide how to strike up a conversation, he
nudged me. “I gave you a twenty, honey. Hand over the balls.”

“Give him some balls!” Herman
yelled. Then he laughed.

“Sorry. Here.” Clint was
good-looking, rugged and shaggy, if you liked that type. Sandy hair, leathery
tan accented by a denim shirt with ripped off sleeves, jeans and cowboy boots.
“That was a nice throw.”

“I know how to shut her up.” With
a gag, according to Samantha. He tossed the ball up and down and waited for Sam
to climb on the bench. She was wetter but no less mouthy.

“Lucky shot.” She pushed her hair
out of her face, where it lumped on the sides like giant ears. “If only you’d
been so lucky when we— Eek!”

Down she went again.

“Do you play baseball?” I asked
Clint since, “Tell me about your powers,” wasn’t a good lead-in.

“Used to be in the minors.” He
pegged the target again. “I’m an even better shot with a rifle.”

“That’s nice to know.” The
saboteur hadn’t shot anybody, but Clint seemed to have a lot of repressed anger
to go with his issues. Was he tormented enough that he might take it out on
YuriCorp, gleaning the necessary information from his girlfriend in sales and
John Arlin’s handler? Or was he John’s handler?