just a figure of speech. Right, a figure of speech, nothing more.
Her panic jerked to the end of its chain.
“So, Evans, what would you like?”
“Saguenay,” Marlee replied, pleased her voice didn’t betray her fear. “Four.”
“Ah, large cup, semi-sweet, two creams?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Marlee took a seat at the counter. By the time she had her other boot on, Woodridge brought the coffee, placing one mug on the countertop in front of Marlee, and then seated herself.
Over the rim of her cup, Woodridge briefly smiled. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.” She carefully sipped her coffee, then set the mug down.
Marlee eyed her mug and the steam wafting off the top. Way too hot to drink. She focused on Woodridge. “Yes, ma’am, I’m a bit curious.”
Woodridge reached into a sleeve pocket, grabbed something very small, and pulled her hand out. With the item clutched in her palm, she extended her hand, knuckles skimming the counter top, paused, opened her hand, and let what she was holding drop to the counter. The item barely made any noise when it hit the countertop.
“I believe,” Woodridge said, “that this is yours.” She removed her hand.
Marlee eyed the object—one of her ID pips.
Where had she lost the pip? Was it while she struggled to get Deacon on the skiff last night?
For an instant, Marlee’s senses reeled, and she couldn’t breathe. Don’t panic! roared through her mind. In the next second, logic asserted itself along with the calm of self-control. She met Woodridge’s gaze. “Where did you find that?”
“Inside a hoodie worn by Major Deacon Black.”
Marlee added indignation for emphasis. “The rat-fink swiped my ID?”
Woodridge nodded. “So, how long have you known Deacon?”
The question was said matter-of-factly, but Woodridge’s intent gaze said she was looking for signs of a lie.
Stupid woman. My eyes are lenses. Look all you like, they won’t reveal unconscious clues to my emotional state. With a steady voice, Marlee replied, “I just met him last night.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where did you two meet?”
Why was Woodridge probing for more details? What did she dare reveal to the woman? Marlee eyed her mug, her thoughts racing, then she schooled her voice. “I had insomnia. When that happens, I usually go to the Lamplighter for a DeLupian Whiskey, straight up.” Which was truth. And lies went down better if truth greased them.
“Considering where your quarters are, that’s a long way to go for a drink.”
Marlee shrugged. “They don’t water down their liquor. Sure it costs more, but by the time I get back to my quarters, I’m mellowed out and easily fall sleep.”
“I take it you met Deacon at the bar?”
“No. Actually I was heading back to my quarters and had the misfortune of stepping into the lift he was in. He was drunk.”
“How drunk?”
“Enough to play with the lift controls and almost kill us. Then he passed out. I barely got the lift stopped before it went into critical fall.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“What happened to Deacon?”
“He came to. Complained his arm hurt—the one he said had been burned in some accident. I looked at his arm, found the canister leaking. When I smelled a rancid odor coming out of the canister, and knowing burns had to be kept in as sterile an environment as possible, I got him to a safety-wash station and flushed his wounds.” She put heartfelt emphasis in her next words. “Let me tell you, he is one quiet, uncooperative drunk!”
Woodridge nodded and softly chuckled. “So true.”
“So, ma’am, why the twenty questions. What’s the major done, other than swipe my ID?”
“He’s been hospitalized.”
“What happened?”
Woodridge heaved a sigh.
Whether her sigh was for effect or sincere, Marlee couldn’t be sure.
Woodridge folded her hands on her lap. “Marlene, may I call you Marlene?”
“Sure.”
“You may call me JJ.”
Marlee
Her panic jerked to the end of its chain.
“So, Evans, what would you like?”
“Saguenay,” Marlee replied, pleased her voice didn’t betray her fear. “Four.”
“Ah, large cup, semi-sweet, two creams?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Marlee took a seat at the counter. By the time she had her other boot on, Woodridge brought the coffee, placing one mug on the countertop in front of Marlee, and then seated herself.
Over the rim of her cup, Woodridge briefly smiled. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.” She carefully sipped her coffee, then set the mug down.
Marlee eyed her mug and the steam wafting off the top. Way too hot to drink. She focused on Woodridge. “Yes, ma’am, I’m a bit curious.”
Woodridge reached into a sleeve pocket, grabbed something very small, and pulled her hand out. With the item clutched in her palm, she extended her hand, knuckles skimming the counter top, paused, opened her hand, and let what she was holding drop to the counter. The item barely made any noise when it hit the countertop.
“I believe,” Woodridge said, “that this is yours.” She removed her hand.
Marlee eyed the object—one of her ID pips.
Where had she lost the pip? Was it while she struggled to get Deacon on the skiff last night?
For an instant, Marlee’s senses reeled, and she couldn’t breathe. Don’t panic! roared through her mind. In the next second, logic asserted itself along with the calm of self-control. She met Woodridge’s gaze. “Where did you find that?”
“Inside a hoodie worn by Major Deacon Black.”
Marlee added indignation for emphasis. “The rat-fink swiped my ID?”
Woodridge nodded. “So, how long have you known Deacon?”
The question was said matter-of-factly, but Woodridge’s intent gaze said she was looking for signs of a lie.
Stupid woman. My eyes are lenses. Look all you like, they won’t reveal unconscious clues to my emotional state. With a steady voice, Marlee replied, “I just met him last night.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where did you two meet?”
Why was Woodridge probing for more details? What did she dare reveal to the woman? Marlee eyed her mug, her thoughts racing, then she schooled her voice. “I had insomnia. When that happens, I usually go to the Lamplighter for a DeLupian Whiskey, straight up.” Which was truth. And lies went down better if truth greased them.
“Considering where your quarters are, that’s a long way to go for a drink.”
Marlee shrugged. “They don’t water down their liquor. Sure it costs more, but by the time I get back to my quarters, I’m mellowed out and easily fall sleep.”
“I take it you met Deacon at the bar?”
“No. Actually I was heading back to my quarters and had the misfortune of stepping into the lift he was in. He was drunk.”
“How drunk?”
“Enough to play with the lift controls and almost kill us. Then he passed out. I barely got the lift stopped before it went into critical fall.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“What happened to Deacon?”
“He came to. Complained his arm hurt—the one he said had been burned in some accident. I looked at his arm, found the canister leaking. When I smelled a rancid odor coming out of the canister, and knowing burns had to be kept in as sterile an environment as possible, I got him to a safety-wash station and flushed his wounds.” She put heartfelt emphasis in her next words. “Let me tell you, he is one quiet, uncooperative drunk!”
Woodridge nodded and softly chuckled. “So true.”
“So, ma’am, why the twenty questions. What’s the major done, other than swipe my ID?”
“He’s been hospitalized.”
“What happened?”
Woodridge heaved a sigh.
Whether her sigh was for effect or sincere, Marlee couldn’t be sure.
Woodridge folded her hands on her lap. “Marlene, may I call you Marlene?”
“Sure.”
“You may call me JJ.”
Marlee
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