Flames
Flames
A round-robin novel by the authors of the Mansion, in honor of the heroes of September 11th, 2001.
Chapter Seven
But that wasn't all.
It took Marisol a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting and recover
from the shock of seeing the allegedly missing Miss Dinah sitting there,
hale, hearty and hateful. Once she did, however, Marisol also realized
that,
to paraphrase an old standard, someone was in the bunk with Dinah. A second
head bobbed up to peer at Marisol.
And there he was -- Marisol's old friend and Jack Bennett's new one,
Marcus.
For a beat, Marisol wasn't sure which name, Dinah or Marcus, to call out
in surprise. Befuddled, she settled for the most coherent words her
recently
kissed lips could form: "Say what?" she demanded.
"Oh, my," Dinah purred. "Marisol, honey, you are the quick-witted one."
"Hey, Marisol." Marcus hopped down from the bunk to face her head-on.
He
looked guilty. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe Marisol was just projecting the
emotion she damned well thought he OUGHT to be feeling under the
circumstances onto his otherwise inscrutable features.
"Hey, Marcus," she mimicked his offhand tone. And then, more seriously,
she prompted, "Anything in the explanation family would be welcome right
around now."
"Oh, Marisol." Dinah clicked her tongue sympathetically. "Has it really
been that long? Do you need a picture drawn? Or maybe a pop-up book?"
Marisol figured she'd already done a lot of hitting this evening. What
would be the harm of another slap, more or less? Who was counting?
And yet she refrained. She refrained because in spite of her uniform and
her lack of makeup and the rather uncharitable comments of various men she'd
both dated and turned down over the years, Marisol WAS a lady.
She was a lady. And Dinah Louis was ... Dinah Louis was ...
Dinah Louis was a gnat.
What's more, she obviously wasn't all that quick-witted herself if she
expected Marisol to jump to the conclusion she was so blatantly being led
to.
"Cut the crap," Marisol said -- figuring there was nothing wrong with a lady
using not-ready-for-prime-time language if the word she was using also
happened to be the appropriate one for the situation.
Dinah arched an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"
"Give me a break. If this is the part where I blush furiously, stammer,
and stumble out of the cabin leaving you two alone, then someone forgot to
get me the right script." After all, Marisol thought ruefully, she only
acted that predictably flustered whenever Jack Bennett was in the vicinity.
"Look, honey," Dinah began, "If you don't mind -- "
"Actually, I do mind -- dearest." Marisol infused the last endearment
with all the hostility she felt toward Dinah for daring to address one to
her. "It's pretty obvious you want me gone. And it's equally obvious you
thought this phony reenactment of a high-school petting session would
embarrass me enough to do the trick. But it's all a crock, and you know it."
"Thanks, Marisol," Marcus said lightly. "I always knew you had a high
opinion of my manly powers."
And I, Marisol thought, always hoped you had a higher opinion of my
intelligence. Look at you two. You're supposedly in here getting all hot
and
heavy, right? Well, then, how come both of you still have all your clothes
on
-- even your jackets? Your shirt isn't even unbuttoned or untucked, and Miss
Homecoming Queen still has all her lipstick on. "Now," she said aloud, and
placed her hands on her hips, attempting to produce her sweetest smile. It
came out more like that of the cat who swallowed the canary. What the heck?
It seemed to annoy Dinah, so it would have to do. "Are you're sure you're
not
the one who could use a picture drawn? Or a pop-up book?"
For a moment, Marisol thought it would finally be her turn to end up on
the receiving end of a punch, as Dinah's face went through a series of
contortions she couldn't quite recognize. But just when she thought a fist
was about to come flying in her direction, Dinah finally let loose with
something.
A belly laugh. A big old belly laugh.
Okay. Now Marisol was officially confused.
She turned to Marcus. "Your alleged girlfriend is a tad loco, no?"
Marcus, for his part, looked ready to agree with Marisol. And yet Dinah
continued to laugh. And in between chuckles, she told Marisol,
"Honey-bunch,
you're smarter than you look."
"I wish I could say the same for you."
"Ah, and there's that quick wit Marcus was telling me about."
"You were talking to her about me, Marcus?"
Marcus opened his mouth to answer. Then he closed it. And then he looked
at Dinah for a hint as to what he should do next.
She shrugged. "Go ahead. Tell her. She earned it."
"All of it?" Marcus asked incredulously.
"As much as she needs to know. Sure. She's off the list anyway, so it
doesn't really matter at this point. That is, if you think she can keep her
mouth shut."
"Hello," Marisol reminded them, "I'm still in the room, folks."
"Just out of curiosity," Dinah asked, "who steered you toward this
tent?"
Marisol didn't know why she was asking, and she was pretty sure her
answer wouldn't be nearly as interesting as whatever it was Dinah was giving
Marcus permission to tell her. But, perennial good girl that she was, the
truth slid out automatically upon request: "Wyn McGregor."
"Hmmm." Dinah turned to Marcus. "You think he's on to us?"
"Wyn? Maybe. This IS his kind of thing. And you know he'd be itching to
get on board if he knew. Maybe he sent Marisol as a spy."
"Yeah," Marisol snapped, "me and the Rosenbergs and Jonathan Pollard and
Robert Hanssen, we're all in one big spy club together. Is anyone ready yet
to tell me what's going on?"
"Did Wyn tell you we'd be in here?" Marcus asked.
"Wyn didn't tell me anything." Well, except that I was beautiful, and
that any man who claimed me for his own would know sheer heaven. But
somehow,
Marisol didn't think that was relevant just now. "I came here because, by
the way, Dinah, our tent burned down, and I needed a place to sleep."
Dinah didn't seem surprised to hear of the fire. Neither did Marcus.
Somehow, that fact drained the last remnants of sarcasm out of Marisol's
bones and replaced them with a chilly dread that owed nothing to the cold
night. She said, "You set that fire, didn't you?"
"Prove it," Dinah challenged her, not unpleasantly.
"My God, what is your problem, girl? I don't know what game you're
playing, but if you think I'm going to play along, you're out of your mind!
I'm letting the organizers know exactly what kind of lunatics they've let in
here, and I'm doing it right now!" Marisol spun around and headed for the
tent flap.
Dinah made no move to stop her. Instead, all she said was, "Did you see
me do it? Do you have one shred of physical evidence? It's my word against
yours. And my word is that I was here all night with Marcus."
Marisol turned to her childhood friend, eyes wide. "Marcus -- " It was a
question almost as much as it was a plea. Marisol couldn't believe it!
Straight-and-narrow Marcus -- what in the world was he tangled up in? And --
her subconscious intruded before she had a chance to stop it -- was Jack
Bennett in on it, too? For no reason that she could identify, Marisol
suddenly felt as though she couldn't bear it if he was.
Marcus said, "It's not what you think, Marisol."
"Were you in on it from the start, Marcus? Is that why you came here, or
did she -- did she -- "
"Employ my feminine wiles to seduce an innocent?" Dinah helpfully
offered.
"This is funny to you?" Marisol finally exploded, letting all the rage
she'd suppressed at each of Spanelli's sexist wisecracks, at her captain's
advice to shut up and bear it, at Wyn McGregor for leaving her so abruptly,
and especially at Jack Bennett for being so -- so -- so Jack Bennett-like,
burst out toward Dinah like the fire that had earlier swallowed their tent.
"It's incrementally amusing, yes," Dinah drawled.
Marisol's dark eyes narrowed. "Incrementally amusing?" Had this woman,
the same woman who at their first meeting had come on to Jack with double
entendres so lame that a seventh-grade girl would have been embarrassed to
use them for fear of sounding like a dumb bimbo -- had this woman just used
the word incrementally? And had she used it correctly?
"Who are you?" Marisol demanded, more convinced than ever that there was
more going on here than met her tired, smoke-blurred eyes. "And do me a
favor -- drop the dumb-blonde act. It's really not doing it for me anymore."
Dinah smiled. "Smart girl."
"Getting smarter by the second." Though she was taking no joy from it.
"Why the act, Dinah?"
"Because," her nemesis said calmly, patiently, as though she were
lecturing a child, "it's what you expected of me."
"It's what?"
"Oh, come on, be honest. You know that as soon as you laid eyes on me,
as
soon as you saw the blond hair and the double-D bra, you instantly assumed I
was a bimbo and wrote me off as incapable of being a threat to anything
other
than the affections of that yummy Mr. Bennett of yours."
"Leave Jack out of this!" Marisol cautioned.
"Oooh, I am lovesick woman, hear me roar," Dinah said nastily.
Marisol felt her initial sincere dislike of this woman turning to hate
the way Jell-O went from liquid to solid in the fridge. "You're no threat
to
me where Jack Bennett is concerned, because the man doesn't interest me in
the slightest," she said bravely -- and quite inaccurately. "But that's not
what you meant about threats. You meant setting the tent on fire. You're
sure a threat to me there."
"Are? You've got the wrong tense, honey. The tent is cinders, and you've
got no way of proving who did it."
"Actually, I'd rather know why. Why are you here acting like a bimbo,
trying to sneak a gun in, skulking around, destroying property? If this is
some kind of terrorism -- "
"Don't talk to me about terrorism." Dinah's face hardened, but not with
anger; this was more a stoic sadness. "You think running around in the woods
playing kissy-face with big, strong men is going to protect people from
terrorism? My God, I could have ringed that tent with dynamite and set it
off
and you wouldn't have noticed, you were so busy with Jack. Is this the kind
of diligence you bring to your daily beat? Sure makes ME feel secure!"
"How dare you?" Marisol said, shocked.
"How dare I? I'll tell you how dare I. I was IN Oklahoma City, pulling
bodies out of the rubble -- bodies that wouldn't have been there if people
had done their jobs and been on the ball! I was AT the Pentagon when they
were laying bodies out on the lawn. You think they would have been there if
those in charge of security hadn't been distracted? Honey-bunch, you SAW
Marcus and me in the woods tonight. Did you investigate? Did you tell any of
the officials in charge? Did you do anything? No, you were too busy picking
daisies and singing -- He loves me, he loves me not. And now the tent is
gone. Good job, Marisol. Way to go."
Marisol didn't know what to say. No, wait -- she did. "You're a
lunatic!"
"No, Marisol." Marcus shook his head. "She's not."
"Okay, then -- you're both lunatics. What was this, some little
I-told-you-so test? You came here to make us all look bad to prove some
point? You're both nuts. People could have been seriously hurt just because
you -- what? Do you think you're some kind of avenging angels? Dark Ops?
What?"
"Actually ... " Dinah reached into her pocket, pulled out her wallet,
and
flashed a badge. "FBI."
Now Marisol really didn't know what to say. "You're FBI?" Her voice
cracked with disbelief.
"Just like J. Edgar himself."
Marisol turned to Marcus. "You, too?"
"Nah, I'm just her little helper here. Dinah and I have crossed paths
before."
"What is it you're helping her do?"
"An exercise," Marcus explained. "Actually, it's more of a test. The
Bureau is putting together an elite domestic anti-terrorist squadron. Dinah
and I came here to scout candidates. The idea is to set up a test
situation,
see how people react, and then cull the best of the best."
"Tests like me seeing you two in the woods?"
"And you not telling anyone, and now home sweet home is only fit for
barbecuing. Yup," Dinah agreed. "Stuff like that."
"You were testing me?"
"We were testing a bunch of people, so don't get a swelled head. About
two hundred of America's finest have seen me acting suspiciously in the past
24 hours, and yet here I am still walking around, free as a bird."
"Well." Marisol felt a need to defend not just herself, but all the
other
men and women gathered here. "I'm sure everyone was just being kind and
giving you the benefit of the doubt. I mean, it's not like you fit the
profile or anything."
"Ah." Marcus smiled. "There's that magic word -- 'profiling.' The reason
it takes a white guy 10 minutes to walk down the streets of Philly and a
black guy two hours -- and that's assuming the cops only want to chat, not
drag him down to the station."
"I -- I didn't mean racial profiling! " Marisol stuttered.
"It's all the same. Spend all your time looking for a Middle Eastern
type
who fits the profile, and you let the cute blonde walk right by you,
carrying
kerosene and then lighting the match."
"I never -- " Marisol began, then started over. "I don't believe in
racial profiling. Come on, now, I'm Latina myself! I never stop someone just
for being brown or black or -- "
"How about blond?" Dinah asked. "Where in your self-righteous PC book
is
the page with the Blonde-With-Boobs-Equals-Dumb equation?"
"I thought you were dumb because of the way you acted, not the way you
looked."
"Right, honey. You followed the evidence. It was just the wrong
evidence."
"Madre de Dios!" Marisol's frustrations were boiling over again. "What
do you want me to say here?"
"Nothing." Dinah looked to Marcus. "In fact, the only thing we want you
to do is say nothing. To anyone. This gig is top-secret. If people know what
we're doing, it becomes a total washout. We didn't mind telling you because
-- well, you've already blown it. But the fact is, Jack Bennett and Wyn
McGregor are still on the short list. And you wouldn't want to ruin things
for them, would you?"
"I -- no. Of course not."
"Oh, and don't go getting any ideas," Dinah warned.
"Such as what?"
"Such as spilling the beans to help one get an advantage over the other.
I mean, considering how moon-eyed you are over Jack -- "
"I am NOT moon-eyed!"
"Fine. Considering how head-over-heels -- "
"I'm not that, either!"
"Oh, come on, Marisol," Marcus said softly. "Let her finish the
sentence,
or we'll be knee-deep in cliches."
"Yeah," Dinah agreed. "I'm like that." And then she blithely continued:
"Considering how gaga -- " She paused, to see if Marisol would interrupt her
again. But Marisol just sighed and waved for her to keep going. Dinah
grinned. "Considering how gaga you are over Jack Bennett, I wouldn't put it
past you to slip him some inside info that would help him make himself look
good and get a plum posting to the elite anti-terrorist unit. A man could be
awfully grateful to woman who helped him land that kind of promotion.
AWFULLY
grateful."
Dinah, Marisol hated to admit, wasn't that far off base. Jack probably
would be mighty grateful to know what was going on. And Wyn McGregor
wouldn't
mind a little birdie whispering in his ear, either. Suddenly, Marisol felt
very powerful. And very confused.
And very, very suspicious.
She challenged Dinah: "How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
"Well, I guess you don't -- Detective." Dinah dangled Marisol's dream
title in front of her like bait. "But here's some fat to chew on --"
Marisol turned to Marcus, "She really is into cliches, isn't she?"
"Oh, yeah. I warned you not to interrupt."
"Here's some Bubble Yum to gnaw on," Dinah continued, unfazed. "If you
spill the beans and blow this for us, just what do you think is going to
happen to your precious career?"
Dinah, again, wasn't wrong. Considering how universally unloved she
already was in her department, Marisol could only imagine the sort of warm
fuzzies that would be sent her way -- not! - -if she got caught out being a
snitch and tripping up an FBI exercise.
And yet she couldn't shake the suspicion that this was all too pat, too
clean, too much of a set-up. And she couldn't help thinking -- what if Dinah
and Marcus really were up to no good and she didn't do anything to stop
them?
What would THAT do to her career? How many lives might she be putting in
jeopardy?
"Hey, Marisol," a man's voice called softly from outside the tent. In
her
confusion, Marisol couldn't tell for a split second whether it was Jack or
Wyn she was hearing.
Then a strong hand pulled the tent flap aside.
"What the hell is going on in here?"
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