Just because you’re paranoid…
My name is Sandra, and I have the most boring job in the world. I’m a spy. Oh, yes, I know, it’s supposed to be a fun-filled, adrenaline-fueled non-stop adventure. At least that’s what TV shows, movies, and books would have you believe. And maybe some spies lead an adventurous life, but for every spy out there living on the edge, there are dozens of us paper-pushers and simple couriers. If I’d known how boring my job would be, maybe I would have majored in journalism or sheet-metal welding. Or maybe I would have tried harder for one of those coveted out-in-the field jobs while I was training. But honestly, I knew better. I knew they’d never pick me to work in the dangerous situations, no matter how hard I tried. Because Hollywood has one thing right – the field operatives are invariably good-looking. Because who would suspect the six-foot tall blond supermodel who is unaccountably hanging out at the local taco stand?
I am not six feet tall, or svelte, or, for that matter, blond. Nor have I ever been considered drop-dead gorgeous. So the upshot is I got stuck in a tiny cubicle making phone calls and filling out forms day after day, with the occasional local courier job. Most times I don’t mind it. It pays the bills, and there’s something to be said not having to worry about where you’ll wake up or who is trying to shoot you. But every now and then the crushing tedium and boredom really get to you. I suppose the fact that I didn’t take up any dangerous hobbies, like rock climbing or sky diving, showed that they were right. I’m not a natural risk-taker, and maybe I wouldn’t have been good out in the field. I’d had a few brushes with danger as a courier, but instead of leaving me feeling exhilarated, I just felt tired.
You see, the courier business can be dicey. I have known quite a few couriers who have been killed or gotten themselves into sticky situations. But the whole time they’re recounting their harrowing experiences like they’re a hero all I can think is, ‘if you hadn’t buggered up the situation so badly, you wouldn’t have had that close call.’ I’ve gone on dozens of those same types of runs. I’ve even had contact with the bad guys. But I’ve never been made as a spy. Maybe that’s why I’ve never had the rush everyone talks about. I’ve never truly believed myself to be in danger.
No one suspects the little pixie girl with the wide, trusting, open face who’s just minding her own business reading or knitting on the park bench. Except me. That’s the first person I’d suspect. But then I suspect everyone now.
There are two things the media has gotten right about being a spy. The first is that it makes you paranoid and cynical. The second is that you truly do not have a life outside of work. This seems obvious for the people out in the field, but us cubicle-jockeys work long, draining hours and operate under the same confidentiality clauses. So we tend to hang out only with other people in the business, and that gets old fast. When you spend ten to twelve hours a day with the same group of people, you don’t really want to hang out with them after work, too.
So on Friday, when the guys asked if I wanted to head out to the local pub for some drinks after work, I politely declined, saying my allergies were acting up and I had a headache. Which was partly true. I did have allergies, though they were under control at the moment. But I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, and this seemed the most plausible excuse. Mostly I just wanted to get home early and get a good night’s sleep, so maybe this weekend I could finally move into my house.
You see, I’d bought a cute little fixer-upper two weeks ago, after a long battle with real estate agents and bankers. I’d had to leave my apartment the previous month, and all of my belongings, except my bed and a few articles of clothing and toiletries, were still in my storage unit. Okay, technically my ex-boyfriend’s storage unit, but he was only using half of it and I didn’t think he’d mind. Besides, it was just a temporary situation. I was going to move my stuff out as soon as I had a free weekend… Not that I’d had a free weekend in months, what with one crisis after another at work, plus my best friend Heather having one issue after another. Which reminded me, I had a stop to make on the way home. I’d promised her I’d pick up some lace weight yarn from the local yarn shop, since it was on sale and I drove by there on my way home, anyway. And I wasn’t going to complain about this particular errand, since I had a pretty good idea she was knitting me a gorgeous lace shawl for my birthday.
I turned my car into the parking lot for the yarn shop and it felt more like coming home than pulling into my garage would have. Unfortunately, all of my knitting supplies were still in storage, though I might still buy myself a skein or two. But only one or two.
Three hours later and after a $150 dent in my checking account, I dragged myself back out to the car. I probably would have stayed longer, but they were closing, and I really did have to get home and get some sleep. Now I really did have to get my stuff out of storage, because I knew exactly what I wanted to make with my new yarn and those instructions were buried somewhere in that storage unit. I stifled a yawn and pointed my car in the direction of home, my mind whirling with all of the things I needed to get done. The yard was completely covered in leaves and acorns, for one, though I needed to go buy a lawnmower before I could really do much about that.
But when I turned onto my street, I realized the acorns were the last of my worries. The road was blocked with fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars, not to mention a sizable crowd of onlookers. A house – my house – was smoldering in the waning light of the day. Pretty, in a complete and utter destruction sort of way.
I got out of my car and wandered down the street, listening to snippets of conversation along the way. A few people calmly chatting about the World Series, someone else discussion the upcoming football games, and someone telling an incredibly long-winded account of a completely mundane event. Nothing interesting, until I overheard a police officer relaying the information that the occupant of the house had been found, deceased, probably overcome by smoke and unable to escape. I blinked, and looked at the house again. Definitely my house. And I was definitely not dead. But someone had been in my house. And that someone was now a charcoal briquette.
Just as I was about to correct the officer, I caught a glimpse of a figure moving through the crowd. A figure I recognized. Jason was the senior case officer in another section, and was working as an undercover mole in a crime ring. Several people, my boss included, thought that instead of working for us and being a mole in the crime ring, he had defected and was a crime boss working as a mole in our office. I’d been order to investigate it, very low-key and off-the-books. And I had. I hadn’t done anything that should have tipped him off, unless someone told him. But who else knew about my assignment?
I melted back into the crowd before he could see me. No reason to tip off anyone that I wasn’t the body in the house. I was suddenly glad that working in the spy business for so long had made me paranoid, as I had this contingency covered. Not that I thought I would every really need to fake my own death, but it was comforting to know that if I ever had to, I could. I had a second identity all set up and ready to go, an imaginary cousin who was also listed on all of my paperwork as my next of kin. All the documentation I needed was in the storage unit.
As I turned to get into my car I saw another familiar figure. My boss was winding her way through the crowd. But not towards me. She was headed straight for Jason, her face somber but… there was another emotion there, one I couldn’t quite pick out. She greeted him with a smile and a handshake, but it looked wrong. And what were the two of them doing here? There’s no way the news of the fire could have reached anyone yet, and neither of them lived in the neighborhood.
I saw two distinct possibilities. One, Jason had defected, and had found out about me investigating him. So he decided to eliminate the problem. But he had to know someone else would just take my place, and I’m not so amazing that I believed he thought I’d uncover something no one else would. Though my death would buy him time to bury evidence, so it was plausible. The second option was more abhorrent, but honestly made more sense. In this scenario, it was my boss who’d gone to the dark side, and the whole investigative mission was just to set-up Jason for my death. It made more sense, but was more depressing because it meant I’d misread her for years.
Still, neither of the explanations covered the most bizarre development. Who was the body in the house, and how did they get there?
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