The Likeness

I did consider the possibility that I was making things more complicated than they needed to be, and she had never had a goal at all; that when it came to personality, at least, she was just plain being herself. It isn’t easy, after all, wearing someone else against your skin for months on end; I should know. But the thought of taking her at face value, no pun intended, made me edgy. Something told me that underestimating this girl would be a big, big mistake.

***

On Tuesday evening Frank and I were sitting on my floor, eating Chinese takeaway off the banged-up wooden chest I use for a coffee table, across a sprawl of maps and photos. It was a wild night, wind slamming at the window in great irregular bursts like some mindless attacker, and we were both in a jittery mood. I had spent the day memorizing KA info and building up enough excess energy that by the time Frank arrived I was doing handstands to keep myself from shooting straight through the ceiling; Frank had come in moving fast, sweeping stuff off the table and talking nonstop while he dealt out maps and food cartons, and I was wondering-there was no point in asking-what was going on, somewhere in the hidden levels of that X-box game he calls a brain, that he wasn’t telling me.

The combination of geography and food calmed us down a little-this was probably why Frank had gone for Chinese; it’s hard to be edgy when you’re full of lemon chicken. “And here,” Frank said, maneuvering the last of his rice onto his fork with one hand and pointing with the other, “that’s the petrol station on the Rathowen road. Open from seven in the morning till three at night, mainly to sell smokes and petrol to locals who’re in no condition to be buying either one. You sometimes do cigarette runs there. Want more food?”

“God, no,” I said. I had startled myself by being starving-normally I eat like a horse, Rob used to be constantly fascinated by how much food I could put away, but Operation Vestal had sort of sidelined my appetite. “Coffee?” I had a pot already going on the cooker; Frank’s eye bags were reaching the point where they would scare small children.

“And lots of it. We’ve got work to do. Gonna be another long night, babe.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I said. “What’s Olivia think of you sleeping over at my place?”

I was fishing, and I knew from the fraction of a pause as Frank pushed his plate away that I had guessed right: undercover strikes again. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Yeah, you did. Olivia got smart and dumped me last year. I get Holly one weekend a month and two weeks in summer. What’s your Sammy think of me sleeping over at your place?”

His eyes were cool and unblinking and he didn’t sound annoyed, just firm, but the message was clear: Back off. “He’s fine with it,” I said, getting up to check the coffee. “Anything for the job.”

“You think? The job didn’t seem to be his main priority on Sunday.”

I changed my mind: he was pissed off with me about the Olivia thing. Apologizing would only make it worse. Before I could think of anything useful to say, my buzzer rang. I managed to keep the jump down to a minimum, had a graceful Inspector Clouseau moment where I whacked myself neatly across the shin with the sofa corner on my way to the door, and caught Frank’s sharp, curious up-glance.

It was Sam. “And there’s your answer,” Frank said, grinning and hoisting himself up off the floor. “You, he’d trust anywhere, but me he’s keeping an eye on. I’ll take care of the coffee; you go canoodle.”

Sam was exhausted; I could feel it in the weight of his body when he kissed me, the way he let out his breath in something like a sigh of relief. “God, it’s good to see you,” he said; then, as he spotted Frank waving from the kitchen, “Oh.”

“Welcome to the Lexie Lab,” Frank said cheerfully. “Coffee? Sweet and sour pork? Prawn cracker?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, blinking. “I mean, no; just coffee, thanks. I won’t stay, if you’re working; I just wanted to… Are you busy?”

“You’re fine,” I told him. “We were having dinner. What’ve you eaten today?”

“I’m grand,” Sam said vaguely, dumping his holdall on the floor and struggling out of his coat. “Could I borrow you for a few minutes? If you’re not in the middle of something.”

He was asking me, but Frank said expansively, “Why not? Have a seat, have a seat,” and waved him to the futon. “Milk? Sugar?”

“No milk, two sugars,” Sam said, collapsing onto the futon. “Thanks.” I was pretty sure that he was starving, that he wasn’t going to touch anything Frank had bought, that the holdall contained all the ingredients for something a lot more evolved than lemon chicken, and that if I could just get my hands on his shoulders I could rub that tension away in five minutes flat. Going undercover was starting to seem like the easy part here.

I sat next to Sam, as close as I could get without touching. “How’s it going?” I asked.