“
About?
”
Zack shrugged.
“
She
’
s on the phone, but I
’
m to buzz her when you called in. Beeper not working, is that it?
”
“
I
—”
Sweet Jesus, where the hell was the thing? She
’
d forgotten all about it. She dug into her pocketbook and found it trying valiantly to reach her, silently vibrating against her wallet, calendar, and tissue container. She looked at it, saw the office number, and bit at her bottom lip while she exhaled in exasperation through her nose.
“
It didn
’
t fit who I was saying I was
…
.
”
At dawn, at ILM when she was sheepish Audrey Miller. What about the hours since then?
“
I forgot all about it.
”
Zack shrugged.
“
You
’
ve only had it a few days. I
’
ve seen a couple or three newcomers in this office. It
’
s like learning to drive. They remember to turn on the signal, but not how to also check out the new lane before zooming into it. Or if they remember that, they forget about not slowing down then. Or if
—
You get the idea, right? Don
’
t be too hard on yourself.
”
“
You
’
ve been here two years and something,
”
she said.
“
How many new ones did you observe?
”
“
Seven of you guys. She isn
’
t great at keeping associates.
”
Even less good at it than Billie had imagined. An apprentice had to put in six thousand hours at slave wages, which translated into one hundred fifty weeks if the newcomer worked eight-hour days, five day a week. Three years, give or take, but in two and a half years, seven people like her had walked in and out of this office. Her own odds of enduring felt shaky.
“
Don
’
t listen to statistics,
”
Zack said.
“
Numbers lie. I can think of two who were here at the same time and then together, decided to become Chippendale dancers instead. Male stripping pays better than this. Another one developed an ulcer
—”
“
Because of her?
”
Billie whispered.
He shrugged.
“
Who can say? Anyway, he moved to Pennsylvania.
”
He popped another malt ball into his mouth while he did further calculations. When it was swallowed, he continued.
“
Dobson worked here the whole time. Left right before you appeared, from what I can see on the records. So we
’
re up to four of the seven
—
and you
’
re one of them, so it was just two who said, in essence or in fact,
‘
Life is too short to spend another minute working for her,
’
and slammed the door. She fired one of them for incompetence and he became a security guard and the other one
—
that one was kind of mutual, like a divorce, that one moved to Mexico, from what I hear. You don
’
t look like a quitter
—
are you?
”
“
Stay tuned. This is where I
’
ll find that out.
”
Billie walked toward her cubicle and told him he could let Emma know she was here. She was working on a computer search on the net. That sounded pleasing and professional and might mitigate her other offenses.
What had Yvonne said
—“
Society for Creative Assassins
”
?
Life wasn
’
t overgenerous when your best lead was a madwoman. She was sure Stephen Tassio wasn
’
t an assassin, but given that she had no good alternatives, she
’
d look for an organized society of assassins, at least until she was summoned by Emma and fired.
She hit the keys lightly, afraid, she knew, of offending the peevish brains inside the machine. She envisioned byte-sized but testy spirits, sneering at her ineptitude and gaffes. The Internet was incomprehensible. She didn
’
t understand how there could be an infinitely-expanding anything. It hurt to think about it, the way it had hurt as a child to think about infinity itself, about what was just beyond it, outside it.
Instead, she tiptoed on the keyboard and searched for the Society for Creative Assassins. An interesting concept. The Assassin Elite. No tawdry gunshots or garroting. Instead, something inventive and new that required imagination. Like perhaps boring somebody to death. Taking someone out via a defective bungee cord on a jump.
…
For God
’
s sake! Eight thousand three hundred and sixty documents under
assassins
!
What was going on in this world?
Her fingers tiptoed toward the entries. And found video games. Role-playing games. Nothing about actually murdering someone for gain. She wasn
’
t sure if it was a relief or a further irritation.
She tried to narrow the field by typing in the entire title Yvonne had said
—
Society for Creative Assassins
—
and now the machine told her there were one million three hundred eighty-one thousand, seven hundred and
…
This was incredible. Terrifying! She scrolled down and found odd entries whose connection to assassinations was vague at best. Entries about cremation. Gilbert and Sullivan. A science fair. Training Latin American militaries
—
at least that bore some relationship. Apparently, anything that contained the words
Society
or
Creative
or Assassin qualified.
But surely Stephen Tassio wasn
’
t involved in any of them, and none of them required medieval garb and titles.
The next entry was:
Society for Creative Anachronism.
Subtitle:
Living in the Current Middle Ages.
Of course.
For a long time, she sat reading and learning. There were formal guides, explanations for newcomers. She was intrigued by the world these people had created, but frustrated as well, because there seemed no way in these files to find Stephen Tassio. Or Lucan the Steward. Only the world in which they sometimes dwelled.
She clicked onward, moving around until she found a map of the U.S. divided into segments. Kingdoms, they were called. She clicked on the Bay Area, part of the Western Kingdom, The Principality of Mists, for a close-up. Then she tapped in her zip code, looking for nearby groups, and there it was, in Novato.
She felt as if she were getting closer to Stephen himself. She could go to a meeting of the Novato group, could meet Stephen
—
if he wasn
’
t afraid to go where Yvonne might find him
—
without arousing suspicion.
But when? What month? What year? Her spirits deflated again.
She found mention of the
“
Rialto
”
newsgroup, a site where members talked online to one another about SCA issues, and, feeling like an outer-space explorer, she headed there with great hope.
The addresses of the message-senders were sometimes cryptic, based on their SCA names, but then
—
her pulse did the equivalent of a bloodhound
’
s alert sniff
—
often their
“
mundane
”
twentieth-century name was in parentheses next to it.
“
Stephen Tassio,
”
she murmured as she searched.
“
Put in a message. Say something. Yvonne can
’
t get you on here.
”
But she couldn
’
t find a
Stephen Tassio, S. Tassio, Stephen, Steve T.
…
Anything. He was the strong and silent type of knight. Not even a Luke. A Lucan. A Steward. Who would have thought a computer could provide such a wild and emotional roller-coaster ride?
The messages were in the order received, not alphabetized. There was a good chance she
’
d missed him. She scrolled the list again.
Marcia, Louis, Miranda, Andy, Brooke, Esmeralda, Susan, Alicia, Anne
…
She had the feeling of having missed something, and scrolled up. But there was no Stephen anybody. No
S.
Zack knocked on her door and simultaneously opened it.
“
Emma
’
d like you to come into her office,
”
he said with a grin.
“
Now.
”
He headed for the copy machine.
“
This is the neatest thing,
”
she said, pointing at the computer.
“
You can
’
t believe what you can
—”
“
Please,
”
he said with a dismissive wave.
“
I would have never befriended you if I
’
d suspected you
’
d turn into a Net zombie. I
’
ve lost more perfectly good people when they entered that machine, and mutated.
”
He turned his back and set the pages for duplication.
She whispered a promise to return, and took a series of deep breaths. She would fight for this job if Emma were as displeased as she might have a right to be. Or maybe this meeting was to be their first mentor-apprentice session. Maybe Emma would tell her the sort of insider thing she
’
d expected to hear and learn all along.
With a final deep breath and five strides across the reception area, she tapped Emma
’
s door and entered, ready for the worst.
Sophia Redmond sat across from the desk. She turned when the door opened, and Billie had to work to control a gasp. The woman
’
s face was patched with deep purple. Her bottom lip looked as if it had split and was only now beginning to heal.
“
Fell,
”
Sophia said before Billie managed greetings.
“
Looks worse than it is.
”
Emma waved Billie into the other chair.
“
What have you found out?
”
Sophia asked.
“
Mrs. Redmond phoned several times today,
”
Emma said in a voice bleached of all emotion.
“
She feels this matter is rather urgent. We tried to reach you.
”
Billie willed the heat rising in her to stay away from her cheeks, to keep itself hidden.
“
I
’
m sorry,
”
she said.
“
I didn
’
t realize my pager wasn
’
t working correctly until a few minutes ago. It
’
s fine now, but
…”
She worked at looking repentant, humble, sorrowful.
“
Where is my daughter?
”
Sophia asked.
Emma leaned back in her chair, waiting, taking no responsibility for her associate
’
s incompetence.
“
We
’
re making good headway,
”
Billie said. Accent on the
“
we.
” “
I now know the name of the young man she left with
—
the one with the hearse. And I know where he works and some of his special interests. Unfortunately, he
’
s on vacation right now, he lives with other people and everything
’
s in their names, his parents do not know his address or current phone number which he
’
s keeping secret because of an ex-girlfriend who
’
s harassing him, making life unpleasant. But I
’
m on the track of a group he belongs to.
”
That sounded like much more than it was. Maybe Sophia Redmond wouldn
’
t realize it was nothing. That it had all been about Stephen Tassio with whom Penny might or might not have remained. Sophia
’
s daughter was as far away and invisible as ever.
“
I realize every minute must feel endless to you,
”
Billie said,
“
but it has only been a few days, and I expect to find her very soon.
”
Sophia stood up and walked to the window. What was wrong with that picture?
Emma followed Billie
’
s sight line and smiled wryly.
“
Mrs. Redmond,
”
Billie said,
“
you were in a wheelchair last time I saw you. This is very
…
exciting. You look quite comfortable walking.
”
“
My words precisely,
”
Emma said.
Sophia turned, looked down at her legs, then at Billie.
“
It
’
s partly why I
’
m here.
”
She pointed to her swollen cheek, the black eye, the lip.
“
I
…
didn
’
t tell the truth.
”
Which time did she mean?
“
I wasn
’
t
…
I could always walk. The man
’
s becoming
—
He
’
s vicious. He always had a short fuse. But he
’
s worse. I thought if I could collect disability money, you know, and a settlement from the city, I could afford to leave him. Even if I had to stay in a wheelchair forever. When Penny
’
s father walked out, I was so poor, and with a child
…”