The freedom of major nations hung in the balance and these Army “brass” were reminiscing over a queen-high flush.
A flick to her ankle gave her a start, a warning from Luanne.
Vivian switched the toggle. She rushed to the next call as shoes clacked in her direction. Mrs. Langtree moved closer, ever closer, but continued on to the last operator. A new girl sought assistance with a long-distance charge, wanting to confirm she had drafted it properly.
Vivian expelled a quiet breath. The engraving from Isaak’s necklace reinforced her motivation: The greater the risk, the greater the reward.
Mrs. Langtree was still handling the bill when an Army officer summoned her to the door. “Might I have a word with you, ma’am?”
Muscles in the woman’s neck visibly tightened, an aftereffect of a request all too similar, much too recent. She nodded and left the room.
“What the devil are you doing?” Luanne whispered to Vivian, less a question than a charge of foolishness.
“Just getting an inside scoop,” she whispered back.
Luanne rolled her eyes, though the edges of her lips lifted. It was the second time this morning she had saved Vivian from being caught. “You’d make a terrible spy, you know.”
Vivian did not disagree.
Granted, usually she would wait until Mrs. Langtree set off for the ladies’ room before listening in on a line. But today was different. In a matter of hours Vivian would be meeting Isaak. How direly she wanted to present a significant find in person. As usual, however, she needed a higher security clearance for anything of great value. She had plenty of knowledge about troops and training, weapons and bases, even tanks, planes, and ships-yet none of this would do him much good.
She glanced at her wrist, forgetting she had left her watch at home. She swiveled toward the wall clock posted by the exit and halted at the sight. Framed by the door’s window, a stern-faced officer stared directly at Vivian.
Or did it just appear that way?
Mrs. Langtree said something to the man, then pointed in Vivian’s direction.
Vivian whirled back to the switchboard, her pulse in an instant gallop. Her hands shook as she struggled to connect a call. She felt the officer’s gaze on the back of her head. It burned through her hair and seared her skull.
“Miss James?” Mrs. Langtree was now in the room.
Vivian turned her body halfway and found no clue in the woman’s eyes. “Yes, ma’am?”
“The major needs to speak with you,” she replied. “In private.”
35
There was nothing surprising about the statement, only the way it suddenly applied to Audra’s life.
Energy is neither lost nor gained, only transferred.
It was a fundamental law of physics—more scientific than spiritual. Maybe that’s why her mind kept revisiting the quote since the day she finished the book. And to think, when Dr. Shaw had forced the thing into her hands, she had no intention of even cracking the cover. Now select passages were imprinting themselves on her brain like galactic secrets on an ancient scroll.
In Jack’s bedroom, she placed his laundered shirts in a drawer. When she pushed it closed, she imagined storing her mystical theories inside. There would be ample opportunity to obsess over them at the next session with Dr. Shaw, after his return from a conference in Vegas.
Audra smiled at the vision: hundreds of suited shrinks parked around poker tables, analyzing each other for tells.
She just wished their festivities hadn’t been planned for this particular week. The result was six days of waiting until Jack’s next appointment, a delay intensified by today’s meeting with Russ. For that’s when she had learned of the race they were in: a sprint to uncover the source of Jack’s behavior before a judge and evaluator presented speculations of their own.
She closed the curtains over the darkened windows, just as Jack appeared in his pajamas.
“Hey, buddy. You finish your routine?”
“Yep,” he said softly, and climbed into bed.
“Brush, floss, and flush?”
He nodded. He had covered it all.
“You sure? Because if you did happen to skip the toilet flushing, I’ll have to sentence you to ...” She twisted her lips, deciding. “Five full minutes of severe and merciless tickling.”
He smiled widely, as if recalling the tickle attacks he used to love. He’d giggle and wiggle even before being touched, just from clawed fingers near his sides, toes, or tummy.
But the memory didn’t last. His expression retracted and lips went level. All throughout dinner he appeared to be wrestling with a thought, yet each of her inquiries had met a dead end.
“Remember,” she said again, “I’m here if you want to talk. Okay?”