The Mars Project - Julie Steimle (good ebook reader .TXT) 📗

“I see. Well, some things take time—in this case, a lot of time. And you have given us some useful information. We just need you to keep on it.” He then paused. “What we really need is for you to find out who this Jeff is.”

Agent Keane nodded in agreement though he exhaled heavily. “The one she calls Jafarr occasionally? Yeah, that’s a strange one. I’ve got a heap of school rumors about that pair on record—including the speculation that they were an old couple. But I thinks that’s just—”

“He’s her protector,” Mr. Sicamore said plainly.

“That’s what’s strange,” Agent Keane said, “She’s military trained, right? It is rather apparent. But he’s not. He’s just a punk. Talented, yeah. But a punk kid all the same. How can he protect her? And, from what?”

Mr. Sicamore shook his head, sighing. “I don’t know.”

Agent Keane then leaned towards his desk. “I hear you have resources. Secret contacts. I heard they helped you figure out what that symbol on her shoulder meant—the heart of Mars. So, if they have insights on this, why aren’t we bringing them in?”

Sighing, Agent Sicamore replied, “My contacts would clam right up if we brought them in. Their contribution to this project, and their connection to it, must remain minimal.”

“Why?” Agent Keane stared at Agent Sicamore. “If they are—”

“I cannot explain more,” Agent Sicamore said, darkly. “But believe me when I say, it would be a bad idea to bring them in. Their connection to this case is a delicate one. If we pull at it, we could unravel everything.”

Agent Keane stared, nodding. “Ok. But…is it really true that the symbol branded on Zormna’s shoulder is the same as on that old woman?”

“Yes,” Sicamore moaned. “And it is the same as the medallion Zormna wears around her neck. She still wears it, right?”

Keane nodded with a shrug. “I guess. I’ve never seen it. I caught a glimpse of the chain once, but she seemed to know it was exposed and she hid it, pronto.”

Agent Sicamore nodded to himself. “They have gotten more careful.” Then thinking, he added, “I need you to put yourself in a position so you can get to know the boy better. The girl shouldn’t be your focus.”

Agent Keane shook his head, disagreeing with him. “I don’t think I should rush it. Besides, I think he has pretty much picked those he’d confide in. He’s not as open as she is. I think he is a lot more suspicious than he appears to be.”

“He saw me,” Sicamore at last said.

Keane stared at him in surprise.

“We bumped into each other at a grocery store in the check-out stand,” Sicamore said. “There were two others with him, both college students.” The agent shook his head. “I don’t know. There was something all wrong with that—like those men.”

His fellow agent looked at him, waiting. “What do you mean?”

Agent Sicamore shook his head.

“We had thought those two men who roomed in that boy’s house were also imposing on the Streigle family. Yet they bought beer.” Turning to him, Sicamore said, “Martians don’t drink alcohol. It is a cultural fact.”

“How do you—?”

“Something my source informed me. They were very observant.” Blowing off the rest, Sicamore continued. “The thing is, they fit the physical description of a Martian perfectly—fair skin, light eyes, blue and green—and rarely taller than six feet. The thing was, I think that boy, Jeff Streigle, or whatever his name is, knew who I was when he saw me.”

Agent Keane looked up. “But how? You never saw him on the street before then, did you?”

Agent Sicamore shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair again. “Maybe my brain is working overtime. I don’t know. Perhaps I’m imagining it.”

However Agent Keane shook his head.

“That kid is keener than we think. He completed a Calculus assignment in fifteen minutes, and it took most kids in that course an hour and a half to finish the same one. I couldn’t do it. He pretends to be stupider than he is.” Biting the inside of his lip, Keane said pensively, “I just heard about how he broke a guy’s leg, which he claimed to be in self-defense.”

Agent Sicamore nodded. “Yes, it was in the papers last year. And he has retained his title as the state champ in wrestling. It had been self-defense.”

“That’s my meaning,” Agent Keane said. “He claims to have gone to Zormna’s school for two weeks. But I’m thinking that maybe he was a classmate of hers, just longer than a couple weeks. Maybe he is a soldier but much better at faking it.”

His superior nodded. “Possibly. Except what about his accent?”

Agent Keane shrugged. “Zormna is tone deaf. She can’t catch accents. He just mastered it where she could not. Isn’t he a musician or something like that?”

“True. Except that still doesn’t explain why Zormna and he were violently adverse to each other when they first met at the high school. And why only at the end of the year did they start getting along.” Sicamore was frowning. “I want to know why he is protecting her.”

Agent Keane nodded and stood up. “I’ll figure it out.” Then pausing, Keane said, “And maybe you’d better check your source.”

Agent Sicamore sighed and nodded in return. “Maybe I will.”

Then Agent Keane stopped with his hand on the door. He turned and looked at Sicamore. “What is your source? If I can ask.”

His superior looked him in the eye and said, “You can’t. Thank you, Steve.”

The undercover agent walked out the door with a nod and shut it quickly. Mr. James Sicamore sighed and went back into his thoughts again.

How could he use that source? He was sure the last time he used it he exposed Zormna’s great aunt to them, causing her to get killed. It was his fault. He blamed himself.

Sicamore swallowed. Still, if there was a way it might be his only chance to find out the truth. He leaned over and picked up the phone.

“Yes, Marc. I’m going to step out for the evening. Can you take all my calls and put the reports on my desk?” Listening, he said, “Yes, thank you.”

He placed the receiver down and stood up, walking over to the wall hook and taking his suit coat down. Sighing, he shook his head. It had been two years since he spoke to his contact last. Not since the old woman was killed. Mr. Sicamore dreaded this trip but knew that sooner or later it would come.

He stepped out of his office and shut off the light, locking the door. Pocketing the key, Mr. Sicamore walked down the hall to the elevator. He pressed the down button and gazed at the closed door, waiting. It opened a few minutes after. He stepped inside next to a stiff woman that looked like she just had her face stretched. They descended a few floors. The door opened again and another man stepped on.

“Ground floor,” the man muttered.

The woman punched the button again as if she hadn’t already pushed it earlier.

The elevator touched two more floors before it reached the bottom. Mr. Sicamore stepped off and marched into the pristine foyer. Security guards stood behind a front desk, and doormen stood at the door. He walked out and handed the doorman his car ticket. His car, not three minutes later, pulled up to the front of the building and he stepped in.

He drove off, into the city’s traffic and then onto the freeway, traveling several miles until it grew dark and the stars started to poke out. Mr. Sicamore didn’t stop until he reached a suburb, a quiet one that sat in an old part of the town with trim lawn. He parked, opened the door, exited, and closed it again. He crossed the street to an old brick house, very much from the sixties with its squashed roof and near seventies decor. He knocked once.

The door opened. The resident, a stooped short figure silhouetted by the light inside, looked out first then snarled in a strange Irish brogue, “You’re back? I thought you’d gone for good.”

Mr. Sicamore nodded and said, “I need to talk to you.”

Shaking his head, the man let him in.

 

Chapter Eight: Cultural Fair

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Man creates culture and through culture creates himself.”  –Pope John Paul II

 

 

Saturday morning, bright and early, Jennifer and Zormna loaded the white convertible with the PVC pipes and green curtains, stacking on top of that five trays of strawberry shortbread tarts, a hot plate, and a large pot of corned beef and cabbage stew. They stuffed the electric sign and the map in the trunk along with the extension cords they knew they’d need. Both girls were decked out in Jennifer’s green dresses, and much to Zormna’s dismay they looked very cute.

Ready to go, they drove to Pennington High School.

The school gym was already open when they arrived. Tammy’s Eiffel Tower was already there with the three girls dressed like French maids. Tammy was virtually glowing with pride. And Stephanie Poulsek strutted, flaunting her voluptuous chest as she carried her things for the display. Only their other partner, Maria Forte, rolled her eyes while carrying the food trays from her parents’ restaurant. She looked up and smiled when she spotted the white car carrying Zormna and Jennifer drive up.

“Oh, you look so cute!” Maria exclaimed.

Zormna took a breath and grimaced.

“Come on, play nice.” Jennifer parked the car with a look to her.

Zormna nodded but hardly felt happy about all the attention this outfit was going to get her. She unbuckled her seat belt then hopped over the door.

“She looks like a munchkin!” Tammy exclaimed, giggling.

Maria huffed and left her food cart. “Read the books. Munchkins wear blue. They’re leprechauns. You know, Ireland?”

Despite the leprechaun comparison, Zormna smirked. Munchkin was another term she despised and was thrilled someone at least stuck to the accurate terminology and for the right reasons. She reached over the door to unload the car of food. Jennifer joined her, hefting up the heavy pot and ladle.

Waving from the gym, their teacher called to them, “Girls! Unload quickly and park your cars on the street. We need this lot for visitors.”

Miss Bianchi was wearing one of her more colorful outfits, a muumuu of the tackiest orange and green. She had a plastic flower in her rolling brown curls, tucked just above her ear.

Jennifer nodded as she waved back. Turning to Zormna, she said, “We’d better hurry.”

They carried their trays of food and the big pot through the lot, going into the mostly empty gym. All the stadium benches were pushed back into the wall, draped with rainbow ribbons and butcher paper-made landscapes. The early crew was just finishing the background for the fair, placing stars and cutouts of international children in costumes on the paper landscape. Jessica was among them, happily lending her artistic talent. It was evident to both Zormna and Jennifer that several of Miss Bianchi’s classes were working on this fair, along with another History teacher’s classes.

Small and long tables were set on the perimeter of the room. On the farthest end, they had a foot-high stage set up with microphones and large speakers, backed with a butcher paper image of the earth and a smiling sun over it. Zormna grinned at it,