Page 123 of The Pansy Paradox
“I’m … it’s—” I shake my head. I can’t explain anything. Not without explaining how my mother vanished three months ago, carried off by my father, who—surprise!—is actually a traveler, all the things a dutiful permanent post agent should have reported.
“Okay, I’ll go,” Mort says, something angry churning beneath his words. “Why the hell is Henry Darnelle still here?”
I shake my head again to show I don’t understand what he means.
“You passed your field agent exam on Monday. I had a hangover all day Tuesday to prove it. It’s Friday, and he’s still here.”
“He was wounded.”
“Which, if he had returned to Seattle to write his report, he wouldn’t be.” Mort unclenches his jaw. “What’s really going on, Pansy? He hasn’t submitted your report. It’s not in the system. I checked. Is he holding it over you?”
“Is he holding what over me?”
“Your report.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
Yes, he does. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, so go ahead.”
“Is he using your unsubmitted report to garner sexual favors.”
“What?” I try to temper my laughter, but really, what a thing to say. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. It isn’t unheard of. There are rumors.”
“About Agent Darnelle?”
“No,” Mort admits somewhat sullenly.
“There won’t be any, either. If you must know, he’s been giving me some extra tutoring.”
“You hardly need extra tutoring.”
“From a principal field agent? Really? I’ve been learning a lot,” I add primly. “Plus, his father knew my mother. There have been reminiscences.” I resist the urge to pull in a deep breath after this rather moralistic tirade. Technically, nothing’s a lie. I mean, I didn’t say who’s been doing all that reminiscing.
“Also? You think I’d put up with something like that?” I poke him in the chest, and my umbrella shakes with indignation against my spine. “You think my mother would?”
I decide that now would be a good time to disengage and end this conversation. So I march toward the housing development, leaving Mortimer behind.
He catches up moments after I’ve reached the Camelot Lots sign, still intact, its shade as depressing as ever. I continue to ignore Mort and scan the development. Everything appears deceptively benign. And yet, I suspect something lurks beneath that. It’s the taste in the air, the slightest shiver beneath my feet.
Henry and I did something yesterday. The sonic boom that rolled through the space rattled my limbs and shook my skull. For the briefest of moments, I thought my heart would stop beating.
A few strategically placed holes mar the chain-link fence. So calculated, so obvious. It’s an apparent attempt at luring us into an ambush. Reality flickers, or so it seems. I see the development as it is now and how it was years ago. Back and forth, back and forth, like one of those paintings that shift between two images.
I squint. “How are they doing this?”
Mort remains still and quiet. The last time he saw the development, they hadn’t broken ground yet. My mother had been waging a one-woman campaign to stop the construction, and the work had been delayed.
Even so, the Camelot Lots sign hung over the entrance, and the survey team had staked out spaces for all the houses. Of course, the fence bordering the cemetery has been there for ages. We’ve always repaired holes in the fence.
I turn to Mort and wonder what the development looks like through his eyes.
“Things get interesting in a level five hot spot,” he says at last.
Clearly.
