The Babel Conspiracy Page 3

  “Hey man! You did that on purpose!”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Says you! I should give you a busted lip for . . . .” The man’s eyes widened when he looked at Joshua for the first time.

  “Look, I said I was sorry!”

  “Well, I’m gonna make you sorrier!”

  A large man with tattooed arms rushed over just as Arie balled his hands into fists. “Take it outside, boys. No fighting in here. It’s bad for business.”

  “You have no quarrel with me,” Joshua said, picking up a copy of Call of Duty. “I just came to buy some entertainment.”

  Arie stepped back. “Yeah, well . . . okay. Maybe it was an accident.” Then he turned and walked out.

  Joshua paid for his purchase and left, knowing Arie would be outside waiting. As soon as the shop door closed behind him, Joshua felt two hands grab his shoulders, felt his body slam hard against the side of the brick building.

  “They’re on to me,” Arie whispered.

  Joshua dropped his package and smashed his fist into Arie’s chest. Then leaning into him, he mumbled, “Meet me tonight, ten o’clock, under the bridge. I’ll get you to a safe house.” Another blow sent Arie reeling backward. Joshua hadn’t wanted to hit him so hard, but he had to make it look good.

  “Put your hands on me again and I’ll flatten you!” he shouted. “I told you it was an accident. You punks always have something to prove.”

  Arie clenched his fist and swung, clipping Joshua’s chin. With one punch, Joshua made good his threat and sent Arie sprawling onto the concrete sidewalk. He frowned when he saw blood trickle from his friend’s lip.

  But better a split lip than Arie’s life.

  • • •

  Audra Shields dabbed lipstick on her mouth like a skilled artisan dabbing her canvas. Behind her the TV droned on about the Everman airport bombing. She was tired of hearing it. It had filled the airwaves all day. Ten people dead, four others critically wounded, a dozen more with assorted injuries.

  First a riot then an airport bombing. What next?

  She shouldn’t be listening to this stuff. It was stressing her, and on her day off when she needed to decompress, especially after Trisha’s news yesterday. She was to go all-out with her titanium X experiments. And she knew what that meant. Michael Patterson planned to use it for the reactor casing.

  More stress.

  She capped her lipstick, tossed it on the vanity, then picked through the crumpled tissues and makeup brushes and jars of cream until she found the remote and clicked off the TV. She ignored the ache between her shoulders that reminded her how tired she was.

  But she wasn’t about to spend the night alone.

  Life was too short. Just ask the families of those who had died at the airport. Everyday there seemed to be another terrorist attack, another riot. Life could be snuffed out in an instant. No guarantee she’d live long enough to collect Social Security. So why sit around moping on her couch? Better to squeeze what she could out of life.

  She studied her reflection.

  Tom Halleron, her college beau, had said she was beautiful in an Ivy League sort of way. It had pleased her then. But now it seemed so tame, so plastic and Barbie doll-like. Still, there was little she could do about her flawless peach complexion, bouncy blond hair, and well defined lips, though for a while she had considered dying her hair black before deciding against it. For some reason her clean looks attracted dirty men.

  And maybe that wasn’t so bad.

  That meant no proposals of marriage. Not like Tom Halleron’s. She had barely dodged that bullet. Cooking, scrubbing, chauffeuring children and pets around in SUVs? Forget it. That wasn’t for her. Those were the things that made a woman old before her time. She had seen what it did to her friends—the same friends who were now pressuring her to marry before her thirtieth birthday.

  But too late.

  Thirty was only weeks away. The thought pricked her, though she didn’t know why. Perhaps because it sounded so grownup, so mature, as though she should be further along that road of “having it all together” than she actually was.

  She picked up her mascara and applied it to already blackened lashes as she thought about the last man she brought home. He had had a disgusting habit of sucking air between his teeth and in the morning had stolen all the money from her wallet.

  She was getting careless.

  No repeat performances like that, she thought, as she raced out the door. She’d have to be more careful. But not too careful. She wasn’t going to worry about anything; not her thirtieth birthday or airport bombings or riots or . . . dreary Saturday nights.

  • • •

  Grobens Tavern was already hopping when Audra entered. The familiar five-piece band that played every Saturday night made the walls vibrate, while a stringy-haired singer, wearing a white Stetson and sounding like he had had one Jack Daniels too many, slurred a Blake Shelton song. “You’ll be my sugar baby. . . .”

  Audra pressed against the bar, her tight designer jeans suddenly feeling too tight. “I’ll have the usual.”

  The dark, burly man behind the bar studied her as he poured out a Black Label. “Here you go, cutie.”

  Audra winked, then pushed a twenty-dollar bill toward him. She scanned the crowded dance floor where couples gyrated and clung to one another, and saw the usual thirty-something crowd ranging from executives to construction workers.

  “Anyone interesting, Ace?”

  “Na. You can dress them in thousand dollar Armani suits or put them in jeans, it don’t matter. Most of them are jerks. Not the kind a girl like you should bother with.” Ace Corbet leaned over the bar. “You need someone with class. And I know just the guy who can deliver.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do.”

  “No . . . seriously. I got more class in this here pinkie than these jerks got in their entire bodies. Why don’t you wait for me after work and I’ll prove it?”

  “You used that line last time, Ace. I appreciate the offer, but you’re just not my type.”

  Ace backed away. “From what I’ve seen, you’re not always that particular.”

  The music stopped and when the stringy-haired singer announced that the band was taking a ten minute break, Audra made her way to the juke box containing a large selection of CDs. Ace Corbet called it an iJuke and had once bragged how it also played WAV and MP3 files.

  She took a sip of Scotch as she studied the titles, all the while wondering why Ace’s last remark still felt as abrasive as an irritating pebble in her shoe.

  Forget him.

  He was a bore. Why should she settle when she had no trouble in turning her share of heads? Even though nearly thirty.

  She looked for something by Christina Aguilera. Something to dispel the depression and feeling of loneliness creeping over her. Aguilera’s I am beautiful rolled around in her head. Just the uplift she needed. But before she could find it, a voice broke in.

  “Hey, sexy! You gonna move over and let someone else at this juke?”

  Audra stared into a handsome, grinning face. “Well . . . I . . . can’t find what I want. You go ahead.”

  “I bet you’re a Demi Lovato fan, right?” The lean, muscular man bent over the juke box then paused. “Or maybe you’re feeling more in the mood for Adele? Why don’t you let me play a few for you?”

  “Well, Someone Like You is one of my favorites.” Audra had never seen him before. There was something disturbing about him. Something that told her to run the other way. Instead, she smiled.

  “So . . . what do you say?” He tapped impatiently on the juke.

  “Go ahead, stranger.” There was flirtation in her voice.

  The man laughed a coarse, insolent laugh. “Not stranger for long, I hope. The name is Bubba, Bubba Hanagan.” And as he slipped a few coins into the slot, he le
t his leg brush against her.

  • • •

  The aroma of the bouillabaisse in front of Trisha obscured the scent of the herbal candle sitting in the middle of the table and curling smoke up the sides of its glass enclosure. She watched as her companion, Dr. Daniel Chapman, skillfully opened the huge Maine lobster on his plate then probed one of its claws with a silver pick.

  “I see why you’re rated the top surgeon in Everman Hospital.”

  “Don’t mention that place! Please. What a day. You wouldn’t believe how busy we’ve been with all the casualties from the airport bombing this morning. I can’t tell you how good it is to be here with you. To forget the world outside . . . all the violence.” Daniel’s serious face gave way to a smile. “Did I say you look gorgeous?”

  “Only ten times, but thank you.” Trisha’s thick, black hair was pulled back into a French braid. Pearls, shaped like teardrops, hung from each lobe, and her green, silk dress shimmered in the candle light. “You’re just grateful to see a woman who isn’t in scrubs.”

  Daniel shook his head as he eyed her. “You look like you stepped out of a fashion magazine. I think you’re one of the most sensational-looking women I know.”

  “I thought for sure you knew more than two.”

  “I know plenty, thank you. And believe me, there’s plenty more who’d like to know me. Not that I’m Mr. Wonderful or anything. It’s just that ‘doctor’ still has a magic ring for the ladies. Believe it or not, as liberated as women say they are, they still want their daughters to marry a doctor. I know. I’ve had enough mothers try to set me up with their little beauties. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “Well, my mother kept telling me to be a doctor. She never said anything about marrying one.”

  Daniel laughed. “Now . . . if they all looked like you.”

  Even in the dim light Trisha saw the indentation of his dimple. He was more charming than handsome, with a kind, pleasant nature. She watched the dimple deepen as she fished out a clam shell then licked her fingers. “Messy. Definitely an Emily Post no-no.”

  “You’re the only one I know who enjoys food as much as I do. In case you haven’t noticed, this body is the lean receptacle of a true epicurean.”

  “That’s because you’re thirty-five. Give it a few years, then you’ll be sorry!” She dunked a chunk of Italian bread in her bowl.

  “See, that’s one of the reasons I’m so crazy about you.” He looked a bit too earnest as he jutted his chin toward her bread dripping with sauce.

  “If I thought you were serious, this would be our last dinner together.”

  “I know. You’re too busy for any real commitment. I get that. But I suspect it also has something to do with you still wanting it to be like it was in Saint Joseph’s where a date with a guy didn’t mean an automatic trip to the back seat of a car. You like your men eager, hopeful, but not very demanding.”

  “I thought we were talking about messy food, epicureans, and the like.”

  “I’ve decided to change the subject.”

  “Okay, as long as you have, then let me ask you something.” Trisha wiped her fingers on her white linen napkin. “Is that why you never asked me out in high school?”

  “I didn’t ask because I was too chicken. Then, in college, you seemed uninterested in dating anyone.”

  “That’s because the guys made dating as appealing as mud wrestling.” Trisha chased a shrimp around with her fork. “Did you know I was dubbed ‘Ice Queen’ by the jock fraternities? But I didn’t care. I saw too many girls ruin their lives. I’ve heard it said that ‘men play at love to get sex and women play at sex to get love.’ It must be true because I saw it enacted over and over again.”

  “But aren’t you playing, too? Playing it safe by going out with someone like me? Someone you’ll only consider as a friend?”

  Trisha ignored the ardent look on his face. Lately, things seemed to be taking a turn in their relationship; a turn she didn’t welcome. “We are friends, Daniel. And I value that friendship. You’re like a breath of fresh air. A gentleman with a sense of humor and a brain, and I enjoy your company.”

  Daniel pushed away his plate then dipped into the nearby fingerbowl of warm water. “Regarding those frat boys—the joke’s on them. You have plenty of passion, Trisha. I’ve seen it on your face, heard it in your voice whenever you talk about airplanes. So when you finally fall for someone, I suspect you’re going to have trouble keeping a lid on things. And it makes me wish all the more that it could be me. Still . . . I can’t resist pressing the point. We do have fun together. Don’t we?”

  Trisha nodded.

  “And some marriages are built on a lot less, you know.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, what would be so terrible if we, you and I, got married?”

  “Because we have fun together?”

  “Because I love you!”

  Trisha felt the same emotions as when, in fourth grade, she caught Johnny Lawson stuffing a love letter into her school bag. She would never forget that biting look of humiliation on his face. It was painful to feel what other’s felt, to feel their hurts and disappointments. She had tried hating him for his adoration, for transmitting that pain to her like a contagious disease. But she never could. Now, twenty-one years later, she saw that same look of humiliation bite into Daniel’s face as he realized the extent of her surprise.

  They had never discussed marriage. And being the product of parents who had been happily married, Trisha viewed it as desirable. She remembered how, after twenty-five years together, her parents still held hands; still, with heads together, whispered their inner-most secrets; still laughed and had fun; and how sometimes they would even steal a kiss on the couch.

  It was something she wanted for herself some day. But she couldn’t force her feelings, fabricate something that wasn’t there. She admired Daniel. They were long-time friends, and he was one of the finest men she had ever known. And she did love him. Just not in that way.

  “Daniel, you know I love you like a brother.”

  The dimpled face yielded to the blow of disappointment. “Ouch. I suppose that will have to do for now. But who knows, maybe in time you’ll change your mind. I’d like to hold on to that hope. Do you mind?”

  Trisha shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Don’t do it, Daniel. I don’t see our relationship going any further. And I love you too much to hurt you by being dishonest.”

  • • •

  “So what did he say?” Trisha asked, as Daniel pocketed his cell phone and slipped behind the wheel of his Caddy.

  “Don’t come.”

  “He’s probably exhausted. He just got in this morning and with the stress of the explosion and all, hardly up for visitors. And it works for me, too. That bouillabaisse had to be laced with tryptophan because my eyelids feel like manhole covers.” Trisha tried to sound upbeat, but the awkwardness she felt over Daniel’s proposal still lingered, and she was anxious to go home.

  “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  “You mean you’re still going?”

  “Of course. I’m the older brother. I don’t have to listen to him. Besides, I want to check his arm. Twenty stitches. That’s what it took to close that gash.”

  Trisha nodded. Daniel had told her all about it over the phone earlier in the day.

  “I just wish he’d settle down. All this flying around the world for his software company—I don’t like it. When you do that much traveling the odds are that sooner or later you’ll find yourself in the middle of something bad. Next time he may not be so lucky.”

  “He loves his job and he loves Global Icon. He’s never going to quit.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “Would you like someone talking to you about quitting your job?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Then be a good
big brother and don’t talk to Joshua, either.”

  Daniel squinted through his windshield at the posh apartment complex ahead. “I’m making no promises,” he said, as he pulled into the underground garage.

  • • •

  Trisha felt a rush of pleasure when Joshua opened the apartment door. “It’s good to see you,” she said, smiling and hugging him, careful not to touch his injured arm.

  The boyishly handsome man, seven years Daniel’s junior, responded with a smile of his own. But his face hardened into a mock frown when he saw his brother standing behind her. “What part of ‘don’t come’ didn’t you understand?”

  “We won’t stay long,” Trisha said, entering the spacious apartment leased by Global Icon for their out-of-town employees. “Daniel didn’t want to call it a night before checking on you so don’t bite too hard.”

  “Never you, Trisha, but I’d love to take a chunk out of this stubborn brother of mine.”

  Joshua ushered the pair into the living room that sported a large marble fireplace, a sixty-inch flat screen TV, and mahogany-framed couches and chairs with brown silk upholstery that looked straight out of a Benetti Italia showroom.

  “I can only offer you bottled water. Fridge is empty. With all the excitement I haven’t had time to stock it.”

  Trisha sank into the down-cushioned couch. “Nothing for me. I’m stuffed. Daniel wouldn’t let me leave the restaurant without having desert, and that tiramisu was enough for four!”

  “Let me guess. You went to Bella Luna’s?”

  “Where else?” Trisha watched Daniel examine Joshua’s arm. “Your brother is obsessed with the place.”

  “Did I tell you that when Joshua came to the hospital his bandage was soaked in blood?”

  “I bumped into a wall. No big deal. But you made it as good as new.” When Joshua moved his arm up and down to demonstrate, Trisha saw him wince.

  “Of course the whole time he stitched me up, Daniel joked about finally getting even with me for losing his favorite Spalding mitt when we were boys. Some brother, huh?”

  “When are you moving back to America? Flying is too dangerous now. With your credentials you could get a job here just like that.” Daniel snapped his fingers.