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Rigger roused himself from semi-paralysis and reached for his remote control to turn off the Mozart. He hit the wrong button, bringing the TV to life. A newscast blinked on. “...missing from her morning dance class.” A video of a hysterical mother pacing in front of an old redbrick building popped onto the screen. “No one, NO ONE, especially Rudolf, my dumb-ass ex-husband, is allowed to pick up my daughter. I’ve told them and told them he’s an imbecile, he’ll grab her and take off to Albuquerque, or some place. I bet he did it. I know the son-of-a…” The video of the woman abruptly changed to the contrite, chiseled face of a young news anchor with much-too-blue contact lenses. He squinted to read the teleprompter. “However, the Tiny Tyke Academy’s spokesperson told our reporter that Samantha Ann Cramer was not picked up at the school. They had no record of her arriving for her regular Wednesday morning bullet…” the man stopped and blinked at the camera. “Ah, uh,” he stammered, clearing his throat. “I mean ballet, her Wednesday morning ballet class. The mother insisted she dropped off the four-year-old girl at 9 a.m. as always, and watched her until she was inside the building. Meanwhile, police, and child welfare authorities began—” Rigger clicked the TV off when his doorbell chimed. He opened the door to see the familiar pea-jacket, Henry the Barbie doll, and the sweet Irish eyes of Rachel. “Come in, come in.” He stepped aside and waved them into his apartment, imitating the enthusiasm he wanted to feel. When he closed the door, a fluffy ball of fur came bounding around a corner on the opposite side of the large living room. The puppy tripped on the red ribbon trailing from his neck, tumbled down the four carpeted steps, landed on his head, rolled end-over-end and jumped to his feet. With tiny pink tongue flapping out the side of his mouth, he ran straight for the girl. “L’phant!” she cried and ran behind the woman. He chased after her. Rachel dodged away. “L’phant, l’phant,” she squealed. “Save me.” On the third time around, the woman grabbed the girl and held her up high. The puppy sat panting, looking up at the child, still wanting to play. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?” She didn’t give Rigger a chance to answer. “If I wanted her to have a dog, I would buy her a dog. And it wouldn’t be a scruffy mutt like this one.” She shoved the puppy away with her foot. Instead of being rebuffed, the dog took it as an invitation to play. He yipped happily, pouncing on the woman’s foot. Rachel squirmed around to watch him. “Who said it was for her?” Rigger asked. “Oh, so it’s your dog?” “Yes. I’ve been thinking for a long time I needed a watchdog.” She blew a breath through pursed lips, and shoved the puppy away again. “You call that a watchdog?” Rigger nodded. “What’s his name then?” “I call him...um...” He glanced down at the playful tan and white half-spaniel. “Wolf. His name is Wolf.” “Wolf?” “Yes.” “Well, if you will take your vicious watchdog named Wolf, and lock him in a closet or something, I’ll put Rachel down and get to work.” “All right.” Rigger knelt down, swallowing his pain and moving as smoothly as a twenty-eight-year-old man should have been able to. “Come on, pup. You can play in the bathroom for a while.” Wolf—Appearance - 10, Likability -10, Attitude - 10, Usefulness - 0. When he came back from putting the dog in the upstairs bathroom, he found Rachel standing in the middle of the living room, gazing at the artwork. “Henry likes your pictures,” she said and turned the Barbie doll toward Rigger. “Thank you, Henry.” Rigger watched the woman remove her coat, drape it over a chair-back, and take a bibbed apron from her handbag. The apron appeared to be new. She slipped the neck strap over her head, and tied the apron strings in the back. Her apricot blouse contrasted nicely with the short tan skirt. It was not the same outfit she wore before. Instead of the old sneakers, she now wore a pair of peep-toe black pumps with one-inch heels. “I’ll start in the kitchen, that’s always the worst.” She didn’t wait for a response, but walked away toward the formal dining room, which opened onto a large sunny kitchen. Her heels tapped across the hardwood floor that shimmered under a new coat of wax. Rigger sat on the edge of his chair, and turned to Rachel. “Well, what are we to do?” “Henry Bouvier got to have operate.” “Right now?” “Yes, she’s dying.” Rigger blinked. Building a dollhouse of cushions was what he had expected. “Who’s to do the surgery?” She looked at him, her brows knitted as well as a four-year-old can do that sort of thing. “Operate,” he explained, “Who’s going to operate on her?” “You are,” she said matter-of-factly, as if that should have been obvious. “But first she has to go to the bathroom.” “Wolf is in the upstairs bathroom, but there’s another one, just down that hall.” He pointed toward a hallway to the right of the fireplace. Rachel looked intently into Henry’s eyes. A small volume of two-way optical twittering went on for several seconds. “Nope, has to be the upstairs bathroom,” Rachel announced. “Okay, but--” The girl jumped to her feet and ran toward the stairs, giving the kitchen a quick glance. “Hey,” Rigger said in a loud whisper. She stopped, turning toward him, her foot on the second step. “You forgot Henry.” He picked the doll up from where she lay at his feet. Rachel ran back, grabbed Henry from his hand, and ran again for the stairs. With another glance toward the kitchen, she bounded up the steps. Rigger smiled. Wolf—Appearance - 10, Likability - 10, Attitude - 10, Usefulness - 10. Perfect score. Five minutes passed. He listened to the too-loud cleaning noises coming from the kitchen. Another five minutes. Rigger began to wonder if the girl was all right. The woman came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Where’s Rahcel?” “Um, in the bathroom.” Rigger glanced at the stairway and then at the hall. “It’s down there.” He nodded toward the hall on the right side of the fireplace, where the downstairs bathroom was located. “Well, I probably need to do that next anyway.” She started for the hall. “Wait!” She stopped and turned, staring at him. “How did you do in the kitchen?” He went to inspect her work. She followed. “Oh man,” she mumbled loud enough for him to hear. “I hope this isn’t going to be one of those kind of jobs.” After a cursory inspection of the kitchen, he turned to face her. Glancing over the woman’s right shoulder, he watched the stairway. “Looks pretty good.” Her face took on a quizzical expression. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never asked your name.” “Katrina, Katrina Raider.” She didn’t extend her hand, but he held his out to her. She lifted hers to him. Her hand was limp and cold. He let go. “I’m Rigger.” “Glad to meet you. How many bedrooms you got in this place?” He regarded her, wondering why she asked that. “It’s a professional question. I’ve got to clean them, you know.” “Oh. Three.” “You sleep in all of them?” Rigger knew this was not a joke. “Yes” He saw Rachel tiptoeing down the stairs with Henry. He smiled. “But not every night.” He waited until the girl took a seat on the hearth. “Come on, I’ll show you where they are.” “Hi, Mamma,” Katrina said as she and Rigger walked into the living room. “What’cha been doing?” Rigger marveled at how sweet she was to the girl, and contrasted that wonderful camaraderie he saw between them with the resentful, almost spiteful way Katrina talked to him. He envied a relationship so close that a mother and her little girl could call each other mamma. Rachel answered, “Thinking.” “About what?” “That house with a yard back grass you told about.” “You mean grass back yard.” “And monkey box.” “Monkey bars.” “And sand box.” “Is that your gadget?” Katrina asked Rigger, nodding toward the mantel. Rigger glanced at it and then back at her. “Excuse me?” “I said, what is that gadget?” He walked to the fireplace and took the object down. It was an electromechanical device suspended in a solid block of clear Lucite. It measured exactly three and a half inches square. Admiring the precision milled parts and tiny gold-etched circuit paths running zig-zags over the octagonal silver cover, he turned it to catch the light. “It’s a triple-stabilized, self-calibrating thermionic gyroscope.” “Oh,” she said as she took it from his outstretched hand. “Sounds dangerous.” “Only if you hold it too close to your heart.” He grinned at her. She held it away from her body and turned it over. “What’s it for?” “It’s part of the guidance system for cruise missiles.” “Really?” “Yes.” He expected some show of admiration, or at least approval. “Then you’ve killed a lot of people.” She handed it back to him. “Maybe I should have said it’s used in the guidance system of the Benedict Arnold also.” He put the gyroscope back on the mantel. “Or at least a variation of this one.” “Traitor?” she said. “The anti-cruise-missile missile?” He turned, raising an eyebrow. “I’m destitute, not illiterate. There was an exhaustive article in Newsweek last month about the Benedict Arnold, also known as The Traitor.” Rigger had read the same article. During the second Gulf War, eight cruise missiles had gone astray, three of them killing civilians. The same problem had occurred in the Afghanistan war. It was after that war when the Pentagon decided to proceed with development of the Benedict Arnold, which soon became known the Traitor. Its main purpose was to birddog the Navy’s Tomahawk cruise missiles and if one of them deviated from its course, even by as little as two degrees, the Traitor, which measured less than two feet in length, would instantly accelerate and destroy the errant cruise missile. Still an embarrassing mistake, having a highly developed weapon misbehave, but an airburst was not nearly as deadly as having a confused cruiser fly through the window of a new bride’s wedding party. If the cruise missile performed as prescribed, then the Traitor would follow it into the target and add its own small contribution to the resultant explosion. The second reason the guys in the Pentagon E-Ring wanted Traitor developed was for use against enemy cruise missiles. This was, perhaps, the more important mission—a mission they knew would surely play a leading role in next war. “Where’s your copy of the gyro for the Traitor?” she asked. “They wouldn’t let me have one.” He didn’t bother to add that the new model was still too hush-hush even for the developer to have one in his own home. There was also the Dragonfly project, but he felt no desire to invite any more animosity from her; she was already hostile enough. “Now I’m impressed.” Rigger stared at her for a moment, thinking it would have felt better if she had simply slapped his face. “I’ll show you the bedrooms.” The words came out with a flinty edge, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He walked past her toward the hallway. He’d had enough of her surly attitude. After showing her the master bedroom downstairs and the two additional bedrooms upstairs, he left her and returned to the living room. “What’s your name?” Rachel asked. “Rigger Entime.” She held Henry in front of her face with the doll facing Rigger. “I don’t think so,” she said in her deepest voice. “Then what do you think my name is?” “God.” She laid Henry on the carpet and began removing the doll’s clothing. Rigger was taken aback. God? he thought. A god is a creator, not a destroyer. Obviously she doesn’t realize who God is, or isn’t. “Well, Rachel…” He was lost for a moment. “I’ve been mistaken for a lot of different people, but never anyone as magnanimous as He.” She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. Then she crooked her pointer finger, motioning him to come closer. He bent down. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she whispered. “What’s that?” He whispered too. “I don’t like big words.” He straightened up. “Oh, sorry.” “If you’re going to use big words, you have to talk to Kat…I mean Mamma.” She went back to work on Henry. “She knows about big words.” “Well, I would much rather talk to you.” Rachel—Appearance - 10, Likability - 10, Attitude - 9, Usefulness - 7. “I think it’s right here,” she said. Henry lay naked on the floor between them, smiling up at Rigger. Rachel pressed her fingertip to the doll’s tummy. “What’s right there?” The little girl jumped up and ran toward the hallway, and then down the hall to where Katrina worked in the bathroom. A moment later, she ran back and fell to her knees at the doll’s side. “Apengitus,” she said. “Apengitus?” he replied, stifling a chuckle. “You mean appendicitis?” “Yes, and it’s got to come out.” Rigger went to the kitchen and came back with an assortment of flatware and three linen napkins. He laid out forks, spoons and a butter knife beside the ailing Barbie doll. Rachel stared up at him, her eyes wide. “It’s okay,” Rigger reassured her as he knelt on the floor. “Henry won’t feel a thing. Now, I’ll be the doctor and you be the nurse. When I ask for an instrument—” She gave him a severe look. “I mean tool. When I ask for a tool, you’ll hand me one of those.” He took one of the white linen napkins, folded it twice, and placed it over Henry’s face. “Now she’s out, we can get to work.” He flipped a second napkin into a triangle and tied around his face, outlaw mask fashion. He placed the third napkin around the girl’s face in the same manner and tied it in the back. Rachel took her place on the opposite side of Henry, glancing from Rigger to doll. “Butter knife,” he said, holding his hand out to Rachel as he pressed an index finger to the doll’s stomach. Finally, the operation was over, the offending appendix removed and Henry still slept under the napkin. Rachel and Rigger looked up to find Katrina staring at the two masked operators on either side of a naked doll with a collection of silverware lying around. The doll’s face was still covered. “We did it,” Rachel cried as she pulled her mask down and whipped the napkin off Henry’s face. She grabbed the doll up. “Her belly’s fixed and pretty soon she’ll be able to dance the ballet again. God said so.” “Really?” Katrina said. “Ballet?” Rigger saw the tiniest smile soften her face. Rachel dressed Henry and Rigger gathered up the flatware. He pulled his mask down as he got up, leaving it to hang around his neck. He walked toward the kitchen. Katrina followed. “I’m finished,” she said, “except for that one room upstairs. You’ll have to unlock the door if you want it cleaned.” “No, it’s fine.” He dropped the silverware into the sink and thought about the Dragonfly behind that locked door. “Guess you wanna inspect everything.” Rigger turned to face her. “No, but I need your phone number.” “Why?” “You do such good work, I may want you again.” As they walked back to the living room, he jotted down the phone number she gave him. “Come on Rach, we’ve got to go now.” As soon as Rigger saw them out, he picked up the phone to make a call. When someone answered on the other end, he said, “Hi Pugsley.” He listened. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He pulled the mask from around his neck to daub at his forehead while the other man talked. “Listen,” Rigger interrupted him and glanced down at the notepad with Katrina’s phone number. “I’ve got a job for you.” |
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