Trig Denton – part 6

So much for creative titles this time around!

[To start at the beginning of this story, click here. To start at the beginning of all of Trig’s stories, click here. Or click on the "Trig Denton" categories-link on the right.]

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It was clear Tabi wanted nothing to do with the man on her front porch, so when Bucky tried to put his arms around Tabi’s waist, Trig had had enough. He left the cover of his hiding place in the trees, moving swiftly and silently toward the stairs.

Suddenly, before he could reach them, Tabi spun around, and Bucky yelped. Trig paused, blinking in surprise. Bucky was doubled over with his arm twisted to the side. His body motion followed the angle of his bent wrist, which was being manipulated by Tabi.

When had she learned aikido?

“I’ve had a really long day,” she warned. “Don’t add to it!”

Tabi couldn’t see Bucky’s face from her position, but Trig could. The man was furious.

“Good night, Bucky.”

As she said this, she released him without doing further damage. Bad move, Trig thought. As if in concurrence, Bucky’s face contorted into an ugly snarl. He twisted and stood, his hands already curled into fists. Trig landed on the top step, catching Bucky’s fist in his palm. Bucky whirled to face him.

“The lady asked you to go.” Trig’s voice was low and even.

Bucky yanked out of Trig’s grasp and took a step back, his hands still clenched. “Who the fuck are you?”

Tabi’s brows shot up in surprise at Trig’s sudden appearance. A second later she registered Trig’s hand and Bucky’s fist and processed what had been just about to happen. She paled.

“Bucky, Trig. Trig, Bucky.” She’d recovered her composure enough to remember her southern manners, though her voice was a half-octave higher than it should have been. “Trig is the one who saved us earlier today. I’m Morna, by the way. Didn’t get a chance to introduce myself to you earlier.” She was speaking a mile a minute.

“Hi, Morna,” Trig said softly, with only a slight stress on her name. It was enough, though, that when they exchanged glances, he knew that she knew that he was asking her a million questions. Her soft hazels flashed him a quick plea before she glanced at Bucky, shifted, and looked away. It was obvious she was uncomfortable, though whether it was because of him or Bucky or the both of them, he was unsure.

“You from around here?” Bucky demanded. He folded his arms across his chest and stepped forward. Threatening.

“Nope,” Trig said, not backing up. He met Bucky’s glare with a smile he didn’t feel in his eyes. “Just passing through.”

“Just passing through town? Because Morna’s house, here, is a long way from town.” Bucky unfolded his arms and dropped his fists to his sides.

“Thought I’d check up on her. She had a rough day.” Trig casually slid one foot back. An untrained person might have thought Trig was backing up; in reality, he was dropping into a stabilizing stance, preparing for counter-measures.

“A hero who makes house calls. Very chivalrous of you,” Bucky drawled in a tone that held a mocking edge. “Well, she’s fine. I’m grateful to you for saving her. But I’ve got it from here.” He unclenched his fists, stepped to the side, and dropped an arm around Tabi’s shoulder, the equivalent of marking his territory.

Before his fingers could tighten on her, Tabi crouched down to flick invisible dirt off her red toenails. When she stood she was three feet away from Bucky. She glared at the ground, and her jaw was tight, as though trying to decide whether to give more weight to anger or embarrassment. Trig wondered what the history was between the two of them and remembered her comment reminding Bucky about a restraining order.

Bucky flared his nostrils in fury at her, his hands balling into fists again. Trig shifted so that he was between them. Bucky took a step forward, biceps tensed, and glared at Trig. Trig was six-two. Bucky must be six-four.

“You’ve had a long day, too, from what I’ve heard,” Bucky said. “You must be anxious to get back to… wherever you’re from.”

“You know, you both have a good point,” Tabi inserted from behind Trig. “I’ve had a big day, Trig’s had a big day, and… well, you’ve probably bought another company or something, Bucky…, so everyone’s had a big day. We’re all tired. And it’s late, so why doesn’t everyone just….”

She trailed off, as neither man moved. Trig wasn’t going anywhere while this yahoo was bothering her. And even then he wouldn’t leave. Not until he’d talked to her. Alone. He stared straight at Bucky with all the grand dispassion of his years of training and practice. You might have an inch on me, you might have a few pounds on me. But I am in complete control of every muscle in my body, and you don’t stand a chance. Walk away. Now.

Bucky returned Trig’s gaze with one of his own. It held the attitude of a spoiled rich kid who always got his way: starting out affronted, then becoming irritated until—with a modicum of effort, Trig noted—the stare deteriorated to boredom, as if he were looking at absolutely the most useless thing on the planet. Unfortunately for Bucky, Trig was immune to the snob-game.

As they remained in the visual testosterone-pissing contest, Tabi shifted into Trig’s peripheral line of sight. Her agitation was evident because of her increased rate of breathing and the way she worked her fists open and closed, something she’d always done when she was highly stressed.

“Bucky,” Trig nodded. Time for you to leave. Now.

“Trig,” Bucky returned, with no intention of leaving. Immediately after he’d spoken, however, there was the slightest hint of a raised brow over his eye, a flash behind his irises. The dawn of comprehension. Something had happened in Bucky’s head. Something had clicked deep inside his pompous brain. Then the look was gone. He straightened up and turned back toward Tabi.

“I don’t want to upset you, Morna. You’ve been through enough. I’ll check on you again later.” He turned toward Trig and nodded with the faintest hint of a smirk and a sneer. “Trig.” The way he said Trig’s name was loaded with meaning, but Trig had no clue what it meant other than an uneasy feeling—which, he knew, might have been an intended psychological effect and the only point of the strange inflection.

Who am I? (Trig Denton, part 5)

Rejections suck. I got one the other day. It was from a local-thing to which I’d submitted (“contest” is the wrong word for what this was), and the rejection was particularly tough because the subject matter for this submission was of a particularly personal nature. Yeah, I did non-fic. There’s a first — if you know me as a writer, you know that I don’t “do” non-fic. So much for dangling my real-life heart on a string for the world to see.

Well, who needs reality, anyway?

Back to my basics: fiction. Trig’s life is far more interesting than mine….

[To start at the beginning of this story, click here. To start at the beginning of all of Trig’s stories, click here. Or click on the "Trig Denton" categories-link on the right.]

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PART 5

It was something you just never did: give out your identity. Normal, human relationships didn’t exist. Not anymore. An almost palpable wall distanced you from your former best friends from high school and college. Innocent, ordinary questions  – So what’ve you been up to? What did you do last weekend? – were landmines needing to be sidestepped. Neighbors never knew. Many parents didn’t know what their clandestine-operative sons or daughters did for a living. Sometimes even spouses were clueless.

You got used to it, the secrecy. The bland deceptions about what really made you tick. The solitude.

It was more comfortable this way, like a warm safety-blanket. Your identity was protected.

But today Trig suddenly needed an authentic, human connection with someone who used to know the real-him. And not just any-someone. Her. He had to see her again, if for nothing else, than to understand why, when their eyes met in the bank today, his reaction to her had resounded in his soul. That scared him on some deep, primal level. He needed to be able to move forward with his life. And after today, he was convinced that she was blocking that. He needed closure.

But there was something more, too. After all this time of not being able to shake her from his mind, after she’d disappeared from his life so long ago, she was here, in Crozet, Virginia, not three hours from where he’d been living for the past five years. It meant something that he’d found her today. Too many coincidences for it not to. Right? In addition to knowing that a chemistry still electrified the air between them, it was clear that Tabi had been in some kind of trouble. Why else would she have changed her name? He had to see her again, even if she was in trouble.

Even if he didn’t know who she was anymore.

Trig told the lead FBI agent on the case, Devon Green, as little as possible (“You’re going to do a background check on me. Here’s the number you need to call. Ask for Bud Parrish.”), but still he felt naked. Even those few digits on the card had left him feeling exposed, which irritated him. The flirtatious spark in her eyes hadn’t helped. Nor had her offer to discuss the case over dinner at some historic inn in Charlottesville. (“I’d love to get your take on a sense of relationship between the two bombers,” she’d said, in less-than-subtle, but not-quite-sexual-harassment body language.)

He’d declined. It wasn’t that he didn’t admire her aggressive dedication to her job. Hell, he was the same way about his own work. In fact, it was unusual for him to turn down any opportunity to be with a woman who was as stunningly attractive and obviously athletic as her. But the universe had just thrown him a curveball, and right now nothing else mattered.

Devon Green was, apparently, used to getting what she wanted. She pressed the issue of dinner with Trig. She seemed miffed by his rejection, and the last thing Trig wanted was to tick-off the Feds. Not good for his career.

He’d managed to delicately extricate himself from the agent — just in time to see Tabi’s car zoom out of the parking lot with a bumper-scraping-road left turn onto a busy street. Trig frowned, wondering why she was that upset; she’d seemed calm when he’d glimpsed her being escorted into the back room for questioning, fifteen minutes ago. He couldn’t chase her down right now, though. Not with Green nearby. Whatever Tabi was hiding, he was damn sure going to find out what it was… without anyone else sniffing her ass at the same time. To do it right, however, he’d have to wait for Cheryl, his field-agent liaison, to get back to him with information on “Morna Smith.”

On the advice of Sergeant Langford, whom he passed on his way back through the bank, Trig left his car where it was and hiked several blocks to a place that billed itself as “The Best Pizza in Virginia!” He ordered a medium pepperoni—the standard measure of any decent pie—, a basket of chicken wings, and an IPA. Hell, he didn’t have to eat healthy. He was on vacation.

His cell phone waited on the table in front of him,  anticipating the pending information. Why did he see her face every time he was in a life-or-death moment? Maybe it was all some sort of subconscious response to his lack of grounding in the present. Maybe Tabi represented nothing more than the last time he’d felt so completely connected to another human being. Not that he hadn’t been with other women since then. But she was different.

On one of the overhead TVs the Astros were playing the Nationals. Astros were up 3-1 in the bottom of the second. Locals grumbled; Trig was good. The pizza arrived. He ordered a second beer and bit into a slice. It was chewy, cheesy, and had a slight crackle at the base of the crust. Perfect. If only everything could be as simple as a good game, a cold beer, and excellent pizza.

By seven-thirty — two hours since he’d called Cheryl — his cell phone jingled the melody of “The eyes of Texas are upon you,” the opening line for UT’s school song. The text contained only a URL and a password for a secure FTP-site, with a warning that the site would self-delete in one hour. Trig spent the next fifteen minutes reading the information, frowning in confusion, and committing relevant details to memory.

Morna Smith had worked as a loan officer at the bank in Crozet for the past four months, since March of this year. Something about her working at a bank didn’t feel quite right to him. She was good with numbers, but finance wasn’t her “thing.“

Prior to the bank, she’d been working for Miratech, a Charlottesville firm that developed software for the healthcare industry. At Miratech she’d been a programmer. That made sense. Tabi had majored in computer science at Rice. She’d been with Miratech for five years.

Charlottesville was only a half-hour away, but when she’d quit Miratech, she’d moved from an apartment in Charlottesville to a house, which she rented, just outside Crozet. It bothered him that she’d moved at exactly the same time she’d started the new job, though he couldn’t pinpoint why he felt that way.

Then things got really strange.

Before Miratech, the Morna Smith identified with this social security number had been in and out of jail for several months. For prostitution. In Cincinnati. That couldn’t have been Tabi. Where had she been in the time between when he’d last seen her in Houston, and when she started working for Miratech in Charlottesville? What had happened to her in that year?

Trig slugged the rest of his beer, threw fifty bucks on the bar — enough for a decent tip — and headed back toward to his car with more questions than answers. At least he had an address.

He headed north on County Road 810 and made a transition onto Browns Gap Turnpike.

Into another universe.

Deciduous trees and wild undergrowth loomed up on both sides of the roads, creating lush walls of green. Between the trees he caught glimpses of pastures to the east and a spectacular setting sun behind the Blue Ridge Mountains to the west. Though new construction expanded the city’s boundaries, it still was rural Virginia. The edge of Appalachia. Every road had at least three different names, and the trees frequently obscured the street signs.

He got lost.

The roads were obscenely narrow. He was used to narrow roads from living on the east coast, but there was something feral about them in this setting. His heart hammered as he waited for the screech of metal and fiberglass every time another car passed him. He’d driven in many foreign countries—shit, he’d served in the Middle East—but these thoroughfares were insane. He eventually made his way to a series of roads with “Sugar” names. Sugar Ridge…, Sugar Hollow…. How about Sugar Shack? Sugar Cookie? Or I-Put-Too-Much-Sugar-On-My-Cereal? Everything was a freaking, winding country road that, due to the dense foliage, the twists, and the turns, only the locals could navigate without copilot-monitored GPS. A seven and a half mile trip that should have taken him fifteen minutes, according to Google, had taken him thirty-five. (Well, five minutes of that had been because he’d had to stop for a family of geese to cross the road, and the last one was a straggler.)

It was after eight when he finally found the mailbox with the correct numbers, hidden until the last moment by trees. The driveway was long, curvy, and paved. Realizing the sound of his tires would echo in the summer evening and announce his vehicle’s approach, Trig made the impulse decision to pull his car over and park it on the grass to the side of the driveway. Exiting without fully shutting his door, he stayed on the grass and crept toward the house.

He walked through a small woods, which gave way to a broad expanse of precision-trimmed green lawn. Another row of trees and shrubs shielded a massive, recently-constructed house. Trig’s first thought was that she’d done well for herself to be able to afford a rental like this.

Then he saw that his instincts to silence his approach had been correct. Heated voices came from the house, behind the second set of trees.

“I’m fine, really,” Tabi’s voice snapped. “Thank you for checking.” But it sounded less like “thank you” and more like “go away.” Trig frowned and continued his approach.

“You could have died, Morna!” a refined, male voice responded.

“Bucky, I’m fine.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know? You never called. I told you to call me back!” The male voice, Bucky, took on a surly tone, and shuffling sounds followed, as though he’d taken a step forward, and Tabi had backed up. Trig’s blood ran hot. He controlled his anger, neared the grove of trees, and peered between the branches.

It was easy to see with the lingering brightness of early twilight. Tabi stood on a large, crisp, colonial-style front porch adorned with blooming planters, outdoor chairs, and a cushioned swing. The front door was open behind her. She’d changed into short-shorts, bare feet, and a t-shirt that hugged her form. Her hair was down; waves of red-blonde mane skimmed her shoulders, and her hazel eyes blazed. She would have looked totally hot except that her entire body was rigid as she faced a man in his mid-to-late thirties wearing tailored chinos, a white golf shirt, and sunglasses perched on top of wavy, light brown hair. He was standing two feet away from her. As Trig watched, the man took another step forward, invading Tabi’s personal space.

Something inside Trig revolted. He was slightly mollified to see that Tabi had the same response. She backed and had to step up onto the base of the doorframe. Then she wedged her feet into the corners and pushed her hands out to the sides of the white molding, effectively becoming a human barrier. She didn’t want him in her house, and he wasn’t going to pass without force.

“Bucky, don’t. I’m not in the mood. And I’m busy right now. Please leave.”

“Morna, honey—.”

“Don’t make me throw you out of here!” Her tone was all-Texan, all-Tabi. Trig stifled something that was half-cheer, half-laugh-of-relief at her moxie. That’s my girl!

Then she added something that dimmed his smile: “Did you forget the restraining order?”

Bucky chuckled and stepped forward again. He was inches from Tabi. “I love that you think you’re tough, darlin’,” he crooned, reaching his arms out toward her waist.

Trig had had enough. He left the cover of trees and moved swiftly and silently toward the stairs.

A different perspective (Trig Denton)

Don’t say my name, don’t say my name, don’t say my name!

Crozet, Virginia was the last place I expected to see anyone from my past — a past I’d worked to avoid. Forget. But when Trig popped out to rescue us all from the bank robbers and their bomb, my first emotions went to surprise and hope.

He was in action-mode: completely focused, every muscle of his glorious body executing precision-responses to his razor-sharp mind’s command. He was amazing. And he was just as gorgeous as he’d always been. Part of me melted. To think, I’d once—almost—had the thought that I could call him “mine.”

But back then I’d been young and naïve.

For a brief second I’d thought that maybe he wouldn’t recognize me. Then his soft gray eyes met my gaze, and I knew he did. Desire flickered alive inside me, desire so powerful I thought I’d only imagined its existence six years ago. I could swear the incredible heat we’d always had between us was exactly the same.

Trouble was, I wasn’t the same. I’d changed in ways Trig wouldn’t understand. Or approve of.

That brought back a whole host of other emotions—along with the darkness. Everything I’d lived through tried to flood back in. But I was a survivor. I am a survivor. Pushing everything else aside, I focused all of my thoughts on living. There were so many things that had happened since I last saw him…! None of it mattered. The past was the past, and it had to stay that way. Period.

One thought kept nagging at me, though. I should tell him…. And in a moment of sheer weakness I almost did. Now, in the aftermath, my alarm about Trig knowing my real name—and possibly exposing me—remained. But I was glad I’d kept my mouth shut about the other. Because once the bomb was diffused, everything inside me went to panic.

I knew I had to get out of there, go home, and assess my damages. Unfortunately, there was no way for me to make a quick exit. Everyone had to give a statement to the police. But the police wouldn’t question anyone until they’d been seen by the paramedics, and I was at the bottom of their “urgent” list.

Kayla, the teller, was the first to be checked out, being as she was eight and a half months along. The stress hadn’t caused her to go into labor. (“But they said it might trigger something within a day or two,” Kayla whispered to me, with a slight grin, on her way to the back room for police-questioning. “Lord knows I’m ready to pop this sucker!”) Mrs. Edderbee was next. Poor Mrs. Edderbee had picked a bad day to stop in and open a separate checking account so she could rent her house out when she and her ailing husband went to live in a retirement village. The paramedics tried to take extra time with her because of her age, but that just pissed her off. (“I’ve seen too much in my lifetime for a couple of boys in overalls to scare me into the end of it!” Several people chuckled, hearing her holler this from the back of the ambulance.) Mr. Jameson, my boss, was next. He took the longest: the stress and his under-attended diabetes had caused a strain on his heart. The police actually had to come out to him for questioning. Now he waited in the back of the ambulance with Jude, the male paramedic, while Wynona came out to check me over before they took Mr. Jameson to the hospital.

“Your blood pressure’s a little high, Morna,” Wy said, “but that’s to be expected with something like this. You feeling okay, otherwise?”

“I’ll feel better once I get home. Nothing a glass of wine won’t fix.”

“I hear you, girl. Hey, I’m working the rest of the night, but wanna do a girls’ night on Friday?”

“That sounds perfect,” I nodded, wondering if by some miracle I could walk away from this unscathed and have my life back to “normal” by Friday.

She gave me a wink. “I’ll call Charlie and Lynn. You go on in and speak to Sergeant Langford.”

Sergeant Langford is a laid-back, knows-everybody-in-the-area, mid-fifties, regular-Joe. He’s easy to talk to. But right now he wasn’t alone. Our friendly, neighborhood Albemarle County cop was accompanied by a life-or-death, this-is-the-case-that-will-make-my-career feeby. Special Agent Devon Green. She wore her hair in an up-twist—similar to mine, though hers was blonde, and not a single strand escaped the clip. Girlfriend must have had some serious hairspray. Her tailored slacks and navy blazer accentuated the curves she wasn’t afraid to hide, judging from the plethora of unused buttons on the top half of her light blue blouse. Success and confidence oozed off of her in the way that let everyone know she’d been raised with money and privilege. One word went through my head each time I looked at her. Bitch. And I felt guilty for thinking it. I mean, it’s not anyone’s fault what they were born into.

I should understand that better than anyone.

Sergeant Langford ran through his list of questions for what must have been the fourth or fifth time. Based on his reactions, I added nothing new to the factual scenario. Yes, I’d omitted the part that I knew the guy who’d saved us and diffused the bomb—or, at least, I had known him, once upon a time—but it didn’t seem to bear on the present. As far as I knew, Trig showing up was pure coincidence (though a teeny spark in me hoped differently), so it wasn’t like I was lying to the police.

Special Agent Green said nothing, other than introducing herself at the beginning and thanking me at the end. She mostly just sat there, eyed me with twisted lips, and took notes. I felt like an amoeba under a high school biology microscope. Honors biology, where the geeks pay lots of attention to stuff like amoebas. I remember. I used to be one of those geeks. When we finished up I was only too glad to squirm out of my chair and leave. Bitch. I couldn’t help it. She really gave off that vibe.

Walt, one of the deputies, escorted me from the office. He explained that they had to make sure no one approached the crime scene until it had finished being processed. I glanced over to the center of the lobby, and my throat tightened. The place where I’d almost been turned into a plate of fried okra with my coworkers was jam-packed with rubber-glove-and-blue-bootied crime scene analysts. There was no way anyone was getting close to it. Not that I had any desire to do so.

Turning away, I walked to my desk.  Walt waited while I collected my purse and lightweight summer blazer and checked my cell phone messages. There was a text from Wy already confirming tomorrow night. A warm fuzzy spun in my stomach. I was actually excited about it—I needed some girl-time. And three missed calls… all from Bucky. The third time, he’d left a message.

“Morna, darling, I just heard about the… er… mountain men who tried to rob your bank! I hope you’re alright! As soon as you are able, I want to you to go home and take a hot bath. Call me back so I know you’re okay.”

Ugh! I deleted the call. The reporters were still outside getting quotes from Kayla and Mrs. Edderbee — how had he already heard about the hillbillies? And how had he even gotten my new number?

Then I remembered the immense reach of Bucky’s money. Of course. I suddenly wondered whether he was having me watched…? Nah. I was being paranoid. A shudder ran through me, anyway. Thinking about his orders to “take a hot bath,” I rubbed my arms to dispel the sensation of ants creeping along my skin. I shoved my cell phone in my purse and powered down my computer. No sense wasting electricity; we probably wouldn’t be open tomorrow. Or Saturday.

I looked around for Trig. I still hadn’t had a chance to talk to him, though I’d have to ditch Walt first. I needed to ask whether he’d told anyone my real name. But part of me—the little-spark part—just wanted to see him. To look into his eyes again and know I hadn’t imagined what I thought I’d seen there when he was diffusing the bomb.

Bits of memories shimmered on the horizon, like seeing the corners of your favorite photos in the scrapbook, but rifling the pages too fast because you can’t bear to look at whole images, the emotions they would bring. To remember how happy you used to be, a naïve idiot content to be Puck’s pawn…. But it was probably just selfish vanity talking. Most of me knew that seeing Trig again, in any capacity, would be nothing short of masochism. Who was I kidding? He’d left me a long time ago, and his departure had been sealed by what came after…. Stomach curling, reviling against the images in the scrapbook’s next pages, the ones you try to blacken out of memory. The shriveled, scorched things you can only sear into dark spots.

Slam the book shut. Don’t go there.

My eyes filled, and that was it. I knew I couldn’t see him, couldn’t revisit the pain of my previous life. Tabi’s life. My life. He left you, I reminded myself. And afterward….  No! That chapter was over and done with. It had to be.

I was usually stronger than this, but today was tough. Seeing Trig had compounded the drama of the day. I took a deep breath and counted out a slow exhale. Shaking off the pity-party, I straightened my shoulders and headed for the back door. My car was parked in the building’s rear lot. The media had been restricted from the area, and since the buildings around us had been evacuated shortly after the police arrived, the lot was almost deserted. Walt held the door but didn’t follow me out. Relieved to be on my own, I dug out my keys and started toward my old brown Corolla.

That’s when I saw him.

Trig was across the lot, with his back to me, his arm draped over the roof of a car I didn’t recognize. His stance said “casual confidence.” It typified his attitude when he knew he was in control of a situation, which was most of the time. Some people thought it made him seem cocky; I’d always found it sexy. Right now he was talking in low tones to someone through the car’s window. From his sexy-stance and the distance I was at, he could’ve been either clinching a business deal or asking someone out on a date; I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then, as I made my way to my old brown Corolla, I caught a glimpse of the person he was talking to: Agent Devon Green.

I stood staring, unable to move my feet. A pre-uttered gasp caught in my throat. My insides were frozen, like the time I learned my sister had run away from home—some unfathomable sense of horror, coupled with profound loss. Reason tried to break through: I had just reminded myself that I didn’t really want to see him. I had no claim on him.

And he was over me six years ago.

Trig and Agent Green. It made sense. They were both exquisite human specimens.

Despite all of the rationales, poison spread through my veins. I was jealous. But I had no justification for it. I was being ridiculous. I had to get away.

Exhaling the gasp as quietly as possible, I hurried across the lot and got in my car. I was glad I’d parked close to the exit. I couldn’t stop the burning that pricked my eyes as I pulled out, but once again I was putting as much space as I could, as fast as I could, between me and my past.

What’s in a name? (Trig Denton)

“Denton! Why in creation could you be calling-in?” Parrish’s voice boomed over the line.

“Sir!” Trig began before realizing he felt uncharacteristically nervous. “Uh, there’s been an incident—.”

“Spit it out, Trig.” The softer element in his boss’s tone was subtle, but Trig picked up on it. Deep down, Parrish was like a mother hen with his agents. “When Cheryl transferred the call she said something was wrong with you. Her exact words, and I quote: ‘Something’s wrong with Agent Denton. He didn’t flirt with me, like usual.’ End quote. And you know when that woman gets her radar out, I pay attention.” Cheryl was the silver-haired liaison between the field agents and Deputy Director Bud Parrish.

Trig gave a concise, thorough, unemotional briefing of the foiled burglary and bombing attempt at the bank, as he’d already done with the Albemarle County police—to whom he’d revealed his military past, but not his CIA-status. Parrish listened until Trig was finished. Then he let out a low whistle.

“Thought you were supposed to be on vacation, Denton?”

Trig grimaced. It had been an order. Fresh off a gig where he’d destroyed a secret Chinese weapons manufacturing facility in operation under New York City, Trig had, in Parrish’s estimation, needed a break. Actually, Parrish had tried to get Trig to see one of the agency’s shrinks, but Trig had resisted. Again. Parrish was this close to ordering the thirty-three year old operative into mandatory sessions, but he’d settled for insisting on the vacation instead.

“I’m getting there,” Trig responded, knowing the DD would try again with the shrink-thing when he returned. Something about Trig having a death-wish.

“Okay.” Parrish paused a beat, and when he spoke again he was all-business. “It’s a bomb-situation. Did the Feds show up yet?”

“Yeah, they’re here.” At that moment, a paramedic jogged inside to the bank manager’s office, then hustled back out, followed by the Albemarle County sergeant and lead FBI agent.

“Have you talked to them?”

“I gave the county police the basics: my standard cover-story and military background. The lead-Fed was sitting in with them, but I didn’t want to say more until after I’d talked to you.”

Parrish thought for a moment. “Okay. Full-disclosure to the lead: tell him who you are, you were on vacation, this was a complete fluke—the truth. Give him my number. Homeland-Security-sharing crap, blah-blah-blah. They get all territorial with this kind of shit, and if they happen to find out on their own who you are, it’ll get messy. Mostly for me. I’ll get it wrapped up and battened down on our end, make sure they know this case is all theirs.” He made no attempt to hide the disdain in his voice. “But then you get the fuck out and go on your trip. See your folks, or whatever. Got it?”

Trig paused for a half-second while unresolved emotions and Tabi’s face flitted through. Abruptly, he tidied them away and locked down that corner of his brain—his automatic reflexes to job and duty. “Yes, sir.”

“But what?”

“Excuse me?”

“Something’s stopping you. Why’d you hesitate?”

“It’s nothing.” He glanced across the bank to where Tabi was still waiting to be seen by the paramedics. He’d thought he’d exaggerated her beauty, his intense, physical response to her presence, in his memories. But seeing her today he knew it was the opposite. No one else had ever, before or since, had this effect on him. If only he’d been able to see that back then. But he hadn’t, and things had ended… painfully.

Trig made a spur of the moment decision. He had to see her, no matter what. He needed closure. “The situation may take a while to clear up. I may have to spend the night here.”

“Whatever. Do what you need to do, then remove yourself from the scene. And make sure they understand our point of view.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant and FBI agent re-entered the bank and strode back toward the branch manager’s office. Trig hung up with Parrish and started toward Tabi. She was sitting by the rear parking lot door, listening to headphones with her eyes closed. Probably that Latin jazz stuff she always had a soft-spot for, Trig thought with a smile. The stuff she used to listen to it in moments of… deeper emotion. He chuckled, remembering a certain “moment.”

The paramedic poked his head back inside. “Miss Smith?”

Tabi’s eyes flew open. She yanked her headphones out, stood, and followed the paramedic out the door.

Trig stopped in his tracks. Smith? That wasn’t Tabi’s last name. Unless…? But she hadn’t had a ring on her finger. What was with the Smith-surname ?

The young, pregnant teller, escorted by an Albemarle County cop, gathered her purse from her desk and headed toward the front door. Trig saw his opportunity.

“Hey,” he called out to her. “Did you check out okay?” He was genuinely concerned about this, given the young woman’s advanced state. She paused and gave a shy smile as he trotted over.

“Yeah.” Her grin deepened. She patted her belly. “I’ll have to go see my regular doc, but so far, so good. I’m Kayla.”

“Trig.” They shook hands. “You’re not going to go out into that, are you?” He nodded at the media-glut assembling outside the front door.

“And miss my chance to be on the Charlottesville evening news? No way! You bet I’m going out there! My mama’s going to be so proud!” She giggled. Her officer-escort rolled his eyes and shook his head. “But first I need to say thank you. We have a lot to be grateful to you for, Trig. That was really amazing what you did—how you saved us like that. They said you used to be in the military?”

“Marines. And in my opinion, you guys had the tougher deal, since you were tied up and had to hold it all together. I got to follow my training and let it all out. But I’m not sure I could have handled both of those guys if your friend hadn’t stepped in to distract them right when she did.” In reality, Trig could have easily taken both of the hillbilly bombers at the same time, but he was fishing for information.

“Oh, you mean Morna?” Kayla asked.

“The redhead. Is that her name?”

“Yeah. Morna. She’s great. She’s always like that. Watches out for me, like the big sister I never had.” Kayla’s smile went all dopey as she babbled on about Tabi—who for some reason was going under the name Morna. Morna Smith. Then Kayla frowned. “I hope she didn’t hurt her head too much when she bonked that moron… what was his name…? Les?”

“Think that one was Zeb.”

“Yeah. Zeb. Well, I’ll have to text her later. But right now I’m gonna head on home. The long way.” She winked and pushed open the front door into late afternoon sun and waiting reporters’ microphones. Trig stepped out of camera range until the door closed. Then he pulled out his cell phone.

“Hey, Cheryl…. Yeah, I know you’re already headed home for the night, but you’re absolutely the sexiest person I could think to ask for this teensy favor….” He pulled the phone away from his ear as Cheryl cut loose with a string of irate curses about chauvinist pigs. Trig grinned. When she’d calmed down, he put the phone back. “I need whatever information you can give me on a Morna Smith who works at this bank.”

“Agent Denton,” she snipped, “you are aware that per Executive Order 12333 you are not allowed to spy on citizens of this country without due cause and authorized—.”

“Yeah, sweet-cheeks, I know all of that. But let’s just say I’ve got due cause and—.”

“Without authorized consent, I cannot help you to—.”

“And it’s personal.”

“Oh?” That stopped her snippiness, and when she came back there was a note of interest. “And by personal, you mean…?”

“I mean personal.” He hadn’t meant to get snippy, himself, but Tabi was an area of his life he never talked about with anyone. Hell, he tried not to even think of her, himself, except in those I-could-die-right-now, last-regrets type of moments when he couldn’t control what his subconscious pulled forth. But “personal” seemed to be enough for Cheryl.

“I see,” she said. “Hold on a second.” There was a long pause, and he could hear soft taps, as though she was texting someone from her cell phone. Trig waited. A few minutes later she was back. “I can’t help you, Agent Denton.”

“Oh.” Trig felt suddenly awkward, like the time he, the perfect student, had been in trouble in school and got suspended. It was as if he’d crossed some sort of line between his professional life and his usually-non-existent personal one. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—.”

“I can’t help you, Agent Denton,” Cheryl repeated, interrupting him, “but I know someone who can. You’ll receive a text shortly. Don’t respond, and don’t ask questions.”

Stunned, but with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Trig said the only thing he could: “Yes, ma’am.”

More Trigonomics

Continuing Trig Denton’s story from my last post on him….

—–

Trig turned his attention to the large, wooden crate. Five minutes left on the countdown timer.  In theory, the 911-call was still active on the cell phone in his pocket, but he knew from previous dialogue with the operator that the police and fire departments were still too far away. With nary a bolt-cutter or hacksaw in sight, he was the hostages’ only hope. He smiled at them as he eased his fingers around and under the lid.

“Hi, folks. My name is Trig. Y’all are doing a great job staying calm.”

The lid came up, and Trig gave an inward sigh of relief that nothing exploded. He nodded to the hostages, and then looked down into the crate.

Then he swore.

Not one, but two devices sat, piggybacked one on top of the other. They were linked with a series of wires that would accelerate the detonation of one if the other was disabled. And these wires were all hidden in a web-mass of dummy wires, surrounding what looked like a ten pound block of some RDX-composite with a sizable blasting cap. It was an advanced setup for a couple of idiot hillbillies — now out-cold on the floor, thanks to Trig — to have brought into a simple bank branch on the edge of rural Virginia. Fucking Internet! Trig would have to disable the both of the bombs simultaneously, which would slow him down.

Five minutes might not be enough.

In times like this, before he could channel his brain’s fight-or-flight hormone-cocktail-dump, his thoughts went to her. It was something that always happened: her face flashing in his mind, along with a pang of longing and regret. This time, though, the pang was worse, compounded by the fact that she was standing a few feet away, just as bewildered as him. He tried not to think about it, about her, but it was hard when she was right there. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. He had to concentrate. He’d spent six months in EOD school when he was in the Marines, and he’d been consistently trained on updates since he joined the CIA five years ago. Five minutes. He could do it, right?

Actually, make that four minutes, thirty-nine seconds.

He concentrated on the web-mass, feeling the anxious eyes of the other people trapped in the bank with him. There were four of them, bike-locked to each other and to the bank’s counter: the pregnant teenage teller, the elderly female customer, the obese bank manager, and her. Tabitha Dumas. What the heck was she doing in Virginia? For a moment, Trig’s concentration slipped. Panic tried to rise. He strained for the sound of approaching sirens. Nothing.

Wresting his composure back into place, he pinched the first wire on each bomb between his thumb and index fingers and tugged with slow, concurrent force. The wires came loose; Trig exhaled. The timer kept counting.

Three minutes, forty-five seconds.

The hillbillies remained unconscious on the floor. Damn, he never saw this coming when he’d made the impromptu decision to pull over from a just-as-impromptu road trip to visit his parents in Spring, Texas. Trig wove his fingers past several more wires and grasped a set that was second from the bottom on each device. They inched out slowly, a millimeter at a time, until they were free.

Two minutes, thirty-three seconds.

“You can do this, right, Trig?”

Unable to resist the soft pleading in her voice, he glanced up. The metal handcuffs strangled her narrow wrists and bound her to the elderly customer and the teller. Strands of red hair fell down from her up-twist, framing her pale complexion and making her look even more vulnerable. As he met Tabi’s large, scared hazel gaze, he caught a host of emotions there: hope, anger, pain, and fear. Everything inside him surged into protective mode.

“Don’t worry. I got this.” He winked and cracked a broad, easy grin.

The last time he’d seen Tabi was in Texas, six years ago. He’d been twenty-seven and still in the Marines. She’d been twenty-one and freshly-graduated from Rice. Despite his obvious access to all kinds of information, he hadn’t kept track of her. Every time he’d had one of these life-flashing moments, he’d told himself that he was going to find her. Later he always managed to put it off — just until his nerves were more under control, he’d think. Somehow his nerves never were.

But the last time he’d made the promise to himself had been two days ago, when he’d demoed a Chinese smart-bomb factory under New York City. And now, here she was, right in front of him. Maybe this random meeting was the universe’s way of getting in his face, saying this chapter of his life wasn’t finished.

He focused back on the devices. Counting his fingers up three more wires, he held his breath and began easing out the next set.

One minute, fifty-seven seconds.

He found what he thought was the last set of wires and began to tug. They wouldn’t budge. Peering in as much as he could, at an angle, he saw that the last two wires were each wrapped around a hex bolt that was screwed to the bottom of the box. Shit!

“Trig,” Tabi began, “there’s something I need to—.”

“I need a wrench,” Trig interrupted, looking up at the bank manager. He’d heard Tabi, but he had to focus on the bombs.

“Back office,” the manager grunted, jerking the direction with his head. Trig eased his fingers out from the web-mass of wires and dashed across the bank. Yanking open drawers, he found three crescent wrenches and sprinted back to the crate.

One minute, two seconds.

The first wrench was too small. The second wrench fit, but it took him several tugs to loosen the bolt.

Twenty-nine seconds.

He snaked out the wrench and slid it back down under the web-mass next to the other bomb. Tug! Tug! Tug! The bolt didn’t budge.

Eighteen seconds.

Tug! Tug! TUG! The bolt moved. TUG! It swiveled up.

Seven seconds.

Dropping the wrench on the bottom of the crate, Trig once again positioned his thumb and index fingers on the wires. Pull….

Four….

Easy, now!

Three….

“Trig…?”

Two….

He held his breath. Pull!

One….

The wires came out.

Zero.

The timer finished its countdown.

Nothing happened.

It was over.

Trig exhaled and looked up. The bank manager’s face was beet red and the old lady customer looked as though she was going to pass out. The pregnant teller took deep breaths and had closed her eyes. Tears streamed down Tabi’s face. It was all he could do not to rush over and pull her into his arms. But he wasn’t sure she’d want that.

“Sorry,” he grinned, testing the waters. “Now what was it you were you going to say?”

But instead of smiling back, Tabi bit her lip. “Nothing,” she said. Her voice sounded strained, a mixture of sadness and anger. “It… nevermind.” She shook her head and looked away. “Doesn’t matter.”

Trig tried to catch her gaze, to read her. Just then, sirens screeched at the front of the bank. A half-dozen cops swarmed through the door. In the chaos, he managed to make eye-contact with her one last time.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, before Trig was pulled away by one of the uniforms.