Quaid’s charged moments occur reliably, but in no special order.
I met her online.
Yeah, yeah — spare me your heehaws. It wasn’t Insta or Snapchat. She contacted me through my ProtonMail account, which is known to very few people on the planet. The Joint Chiefs and Secretary of State. Sergio Diaz, former mayor of New York City. Dave Hasselhoff.
She said she represented a cartel of “powerful, large-thinking individuals” who’d made an historic geological find. She’d been vague about what they were sitting on but hinted at beaucoup dollar signs.
The tease had been enough to get me on a plane to Ecuador.
(Full disclosure: her ProtonMail sig did include a headshot.)
Now I found her at the prescribed geolocation, resplendent upon these gleaming marble steps. I’d hiked two dozen flights to reach this point, the very pinnacle, and couldn’t see beyond her.
“Mister Rafferty,” she said in a smoky accent I couldn’t place. “You came.”
“Indeed.” I grinned despite my aching arches. Tasseled loafers aren’t endurance footwear. “What have I come to see?”
“Straight to business,” said the woman, who’d called herself Vega in our previous correspondence. “I expected foreplay from a man of your silver-tongued reputation.”
There was a lot to unpack between her words and the dress, which flapped and fluttered in the wind.
“Oh, my tongue won’t disappoint,” I said. “But first, I’d like to make sure you aren’t the cheese in some big steel trap.”
She took a coquettish step forward.
“My employers have found Lake Titicaca, the ancient body of water which spawned all of Incan civilization …”
In a voice like spiced chocolate dripping down the curve of a strawberry, Vega briefly explained the myth. Manco Cápac and Mama Ocllo, sons of the god Viracocha, had emerged from the depths of the lake to civilize and educate the men of Earth. The Peruvians had always claimed Lake Titicaca lived within their borders, but this was a lie. A tourist trap.
Local villagers had long testified that the lake behind Vega possessed magical healing and restorative qualities, but they were ignorant of why or how. Vega’s employers had connected the dots, combining cutting-edge archeology with the villagers’ lived experience.
“Truly, we are in the presence of miracle water,” she concluded.
It was a lot to swallow, but as a member of Third Chance Enterprises, I’ve seen some wild stuff. The world has more hidden waterfalls and sinkholes to Shangri-La than those not living in the realm of small-force freelance operatives realize.
I asked if she’d partaken in this miracle water herself.
Vega nodded, licking her lips. “The first time, my body came alive in new ways. Now I drink it every morning and night. It is bath salt for the soul.”
“I never did try bath salts. Always seemed vaguely unhygienic,” I said. “So, what’s my role here? Why did I fly four thousand miles and miss out on Caesar’s Monday Funday dollar shooters?”
“You have connections in the West — and the West is where the world’s wealth lives.”
*That’s a lot of W’s,* I thought. Vega had a flair for language, and who knew what else.
“Sounds like you’re after a Vice President of Marketing,” I said. “Do I look like a salesman to you?”
Her gaze traveled from my loafers to my sandy mussed hair. Her mouth’s twist seemed to answer in the affirmative.
“When you witness the lake, and what it can do,” she said, “we believe your reservations will melt away.”
She turned up the stairs, the part of her skirt riding higher, and beckoned me to follow.
#accomplice
The compound was burning. Members of the Tribe of the Golden Leaf were sprinting for the foothills, coughing, clutching babies or cats to their chest.
I stretched out my hand to the one who called herself *Pure Sight*.
“Come with us, it’s over.” I pointed to Klingford’s mansion, situated in the perfect geographic center of the four-hundred-acre property. It was missing half its third floor courtesy a rocket-propelled grenade from @DurwoodOakJones.
Pure Sight’s forehead trembled as though some cataclysmic battle was taking place inside.
I said, “You did the right thing. If seven thousand followers drank from a single urn, can you imagine? Forget super spreader. That’s mega territory.”
Klingford had been telling his flock Covid-19 was a sign from God, a means to elevate the tribe from its current lowly standing in society. The honey wine, crafted in the compound’s cavern distillery, would grant immunity to all who drank of it.
“I understand,” she said, “but still I can’t— I just can’t …” Pure Sight trailed off, then found her voice again. “These are my people. We put them in this situation. We did it.”
As I accepted the words off her soft pink lips, every “we” tickled my spine. Truth be told, we hadn’t done it. But a man can hope.
Now Durwood and Molly skidded to a stop in the ATV, plumes of dirt whorling about.
My ex-marine partner leaned out the pipe-frame door.
“Time to git,” he said. “If Sue scooches, we got room for two.”
I felt Molly’s eyes on me as I reached again for Pure Sight.
“It’s not safe here,” I said. “It never was.”
She took my hand, but I couldn’t tell whether to join or bid me farewell. She’d lived here eighteen years. They’d taught her to drive a car. They’d chiseled her worldview with pamphlets and psalms.
I’m a good talker, but that’s a lot to undo.
#accomplice
There wasn’t a sound in the world. The wedding parties, the spectators, whatever tropical birds alighted on palm trees to the south and east — none made a peep. The grosgrain of the groom’s tuxedo just did bulge for the bullet-proof vest underneath. The minister gazed toward the surf with an ennobled air, no doubt waiting for sign of the Crimini sisters’ catamaran.
My eyes met Lisette’s. Five days we’d been holed up plotting this moment. Now the thread of concentration between us was so intense that I felt her touches all over again, beautiful, wicked.
My brow raised a fraction of an inch. Her lips firmed, and she pulled the bowstring for the nearly impossible E7 note.
The instrument sang out clean and strong.
From a camouflaged ledge two-thousand feet away, Durwood engaged the forcefield.
#accomplice
The dance instructor in Coral Gables, a moment after I suggested her studio's benefactor might not be the frail ex-aerospace tycoon he feigned in public.
"3,000 pound gators?" she repeated. "That walk on two feet. In the Everglades."
I nodded. "Mutants." #accomplice