“I’m fine,” he snarled, clearly lying. “Come with me.”
Soul followed Rick toward the conference room, Soul saying, “We might have to interfere in a war that would out the senator’s family”—she hesitated—“or the senator’s extended family, as paras.” The two left me alone with my gear and my dead plants and my thoughts.
If more of the high-powered Tollivers were paras in hiding, that could mean a divorce, loss of the senator’s job in DC, and a lot of other bad things for them. People who hid parts of themselves from a spouse, from the public, often paid the consequences in the deaths of both marriage and career.
I had considered, for a moment that was as small as a hair split three ways, hiding what I was from Ben. I had considered going back into the church because it would have been easier—on the surface—than living in the real world. We would both have suffered something awful.
Occam, who knew what I was, or mostly so, still wanted me. And yet, he had called me churchwoman. I dialed his number and it went straight to voice mail, as I had expected. I said, “I’m a little bit ticked at you, cat-boy. I am not a churchwoman going backward in life instead of forward. You can apologize to me over that dinner.” I ended the call and a strange feeling swept through me, something almost joyful, to be speaking to a man in such a manner. In the church, I’d been punished for such forward speech. Here, in my new life, I was safe, and safety was making me bold.
“Nell,” Rick called. “If you’re finished reacting to whatever you’re reacting to, get in here. We need help.”
Laptop and tablet in hand, I followed LaFleur and Soul down the hall into the conference room.
? ? ?
By dawn, as the day shift—JoJo and Occam—were dragging back in, Soul and I had uncovered a small hill of new evidence on the Tollivers and the nanny. The others gathered in the conference room, placing a box of Christmas-tree-shaped pastries on the center of the table, the smell of fresh coffee in various flavors riding on the air. Travel-weary images of Tandy and T. Laine were up on the big screens. They had arrived safely in Texas and were present via Internet. I didn’t look at Occam when he came in, but I didn’t have to be an empath to know my message had snagged his attention. I could feel his eyes on me from the moment he entered, with full-moon werecat intensity. We were in the time frame of the three days before the three days of the full moon. Occam was cat-itchy.
“Clementine,” Rick said to the software, “record morning meeting.” He gave the date and time and listed everyone’s name. “Soul. Summarize the night’s intel. Please.” The please was added as an afterthought, as if he just remembered that Soul was the assistant director of PsyLED and not one of his crew.
Soul said, “You all thought the nanny looked a little strange. Now we know she is the same kind of creature who is stalking the Tollivers, though evaluation of body locomotion mechanics suggests she’s not the shooter. The nanny’s name is Connie Bulwer, and she was originally fully vetted through a service that plays matchmaker between certified nannies and potential clients. She was re-vetted through the government service when the senator first went to Washington, then she was re-re-vetted when Senator Tolliver became part of the Senate Intelligence Committee. She passed with flying colors with only a mention or two of her skin color, which was described variously as dusky or grayish. Now we have to consider the possibility that her skin color is indicative of species, not a human ethnic trait.”
Rick said, “Her file is listed under her name. You should each have a copy by now. I want everyone to go through it, see what was missed, because we clearly missed something.” Rick changed the subject and swiped new info onto the screen. It appeared between the images of Tandy and T. Laine. “We discovered evidence of an old, failed, financial takeover attempt of four small local industries owned by the Tollivers. The businesses did not include DNAKeys, as we might have expected. We may have gotten fixated on DNAKeys because of the paranormal aspect. Go on, Nell.”
I put the financial network file up on the screen. “The buyout attempt was by a man named Wilder Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson owned and still owns a munitions company, one that the Tollivers’ plants produce parts for. He wanted to merge the companies together for a chance at a government contract, one that would have required all the plants be under one corporate heading. The Tollivers refused a merger. They also refused a buyout. Things were tense between the companies. Until . . . well, Jefferson also happens to be the father of Abrams’ wife, Clarisse.”
“Where’s Jefferson now?” Rick asked.
“He’s in an upscale nursing home in Nashville,” I said. “Diagnosis is advanced dementia.”
Rick sipped eggnog, thinking. “So Jefferson negotiated or approved a marriage between his daughter, Clarisse, and Abrams Tolliver.” Which sounded a lot like some church marriages, arranged and miserable, though I didn’t say so. “Now he has dementia,” Rick said, musingly. “Tells us nothing.”
JoJo was pulling on her earrings with one hand; her other hand was flying over keys, pausing so she could read, and then flying again. T. Laine was frowning on the overhead screen as she swiped through whatever file she was reading. I still didn’t look at Occam.
Rick said, “To summarize, the buyout attempt was eleven years ago and the financial takeover was dropped when Clarisse married Abrams and the companies merged. Eleven years is around the same time as the disappearance of Charles Healy from prison, and Clarisse getting pregnant with Devin. A lot happened that year.”
“So what does it mean?” JoJo asked. “The families married off the children like two kings consolidating countries against mutual enemies?”