The Bricklayer Page 0,3

She had not had any caffeine in three months, part of her new regimen, and her neighbors were out of town. Probably just some sort of latent craving. Maybe she would get dressed and go have a cup; decaf wouldn’t hurt anything.

She went back to the mirror for a few more moments trying to decide whether an even more extreme exercise program would return any part of her physical appeal, and then, in a flash of honesty, she decided that it wouldn’t. She took a step closer to the mirror and started examining her face. Plastic surgery was not as easy a fix as it seemed, at least not in Hollywood. It fooled no one but instead marked her as someone who was moving onto the cusp of has-beenhood, joining a long and unenviable list her peers couldn’t wait to add another performer to. And maybe worse, once started, the procedures were progressive, until everyone’s look became comically identical, that of carved feline features being pulled back by the g-forces necessary to reenter the earth’s atmosphere.

She dared another half step closer to the mirror and, using her index fingers, pushed up the skin in front of her ears, tightening her jawline. It did look better, although it did little for her sagging neck. She was tired of trying to come up with combinations of turtlenecks, scarves, and shadowing collars to hide her age. She tapped the fold of skin under her chin with the back of her fingers and watched as it remained stubbornly unchanged. Maybe it was time.

Her agent had been getting a lot more calls since she had done the exposé of the FBI and the United States attorney’s office in Los Angeles. True, it had been her manager’s idea, but when she looked back on it now, it needed to be done. And Hollywood loved to target the FBI. If they and the U.S. attorney’s office hadn’t been so corrupt, why had their missteps been so easy for her to uncover? Maybe “corrupt” wasn’t the right word. She had recorded agents and attorneys drinking on duty, frequenting prostitutes, and working out for endless hours at local gyms. There were actually some people fired, so it really had been a public service. And her peers obviously appreciated her efforts, because she was now getting called again.

She took a step back and put her hands on her hips. “Yep, I’m going to do it,” she said out loud to make the decision binding. Pulling on a robe, she walked into her bedroom.

She didn’t notice the man sitting in the chair until she saw him in the mirrored closet door. Spinning around, she grabbed at the front of her robe. “Who are you?” Then she noticed his gloved hands. In the left was a take-out cup of coffee. In the right was a gun, which hung indifferently. She tightened her grip on the front of her robe. “What do you want?”

He laughed noiselessly. “Certainly not that.” She searched his eyes for any flicker of motive. They were gray and sad. Slowly the rage behind them became evident, not the sort that flashes for a moment, but the kind that doesn’t burn out in a lifetime. There was little doubt in her mind how dangerous this man was.

She released her robe and let her hands fall to her side with a calming reassurance. Her voice mellowed. “Then what can I do for you?”

“Your story about the FBI brought me here. You really did a job on the agency.”

“The story was true.”

“Yes, you’re a real patriot.”

The remark seemed sarcastic, but she wasn’t sure. His voice was emotionless, containing none of the contempt that ensured the depth of the insult. “The story was true,” she said again, as if testing his ability to be rational, the repeated defense the only one necessary for a logical person.

“Careers were destroyed,” he said. “How about your career? On the upturn, I would imagine.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who wonders why you hate the FBI?”

Even though he asked the question in the same flat tone, she felt an increased possibility of violence. “I—I don’t hate the FBI. Why won’t you tell me why you’re here?” She stole a glance toward the door, measuring its distance and his range of fire from the chair.

He tipped the muzzle of the gun up at her. “Sit down on the bed.”

Paralyzed by his sureness, she realized she wouldn’t make it and did as instructed. Attempting a smile, she said, “Sure, whatever you say.”

He