* * *
When Miggy Tremelo met Marie Jackson, he was a bit surprised. Knowing from the files that Lamont Jackson was in his late forties, he’d assumed his wife would be about the same age. Instead, the woman who came into his office was in her mid-thirties.
She was a very attractive woman. A bit on the short side, with a full figure and an open, pretty face. Her complexion was a lustrous coffee-with-cream, her eyes were light brown, almost hazel, and her short hair had been dyed a faintly red tinge. Tremelo knew that she worked as a waitress, and she was wearing what he assumed to be her work clothes.
His guess was confirmed by the first words out of Mrs. Jackson’s mouth. “I can’t stay long,” she said curtly. “I got three kids to take care of, you know. Without Lamont’s paycheck any more. And my boss said I couldn’t take more than two hours off or there’d be hell to pay. And he’s just the bastard to ring up the bill, too.”
Tremolo was rather charmed by the slight gap between her two front teeth. Despite the woman’s surface belligerence, he sensed the friendliness lurking beneath. “We are in a state of national emergency,” he said mildly. “Or hasn’t your boss heard the news yet?”
Marie Jackson snorted. “You think that motherfucker gives a shit? He woulda docked Jesus half a day’s pay for taking too long to haul the cross up to Calvary. Sure as hell would have fired him for taking three days comin’ back to life.”
Miggy was amused by the woman’s vulgarity as much as by her sense of humor. He suspected that she was testing him, in the way that a combative lower-class person will sometimes poke the muckety-mucks, just to see how high they’ll jump.
He grinned. “Mrs. Jackson, you stay here as long as you need to. If that boss of yours gets nasty about it, you just give me a call.”
He made a casual gesture toward the window. The rumble of another Abrams tank turning what was left of Midway Plaisance into mash could be easily heard. “I guarantee I can make him see the light of day. Unless he wants his restaurant inspected by a platoon of paratroopers who don’t know anything about the building code and couldn’t care less. Just shoot the cockroaches.”
Marie’s grin was even wider than his own. “Well, okay then. What can I do for you?”
The grin faded, replaced by a slight frown. “If you just want to ask me more questions about Lamont, I don’t know what I can tell you more than I already told all those—” He could practically see her biting off the profanity “—shrinks.”
Miggy waved his hand, dismissing the idea. The hand wave turned into an invitation.
“Coffee?”
Marie peered suspiciously at the coffee pot. The device looked much the worse for wear. “You make that coffee?”
Miggy nodded. Marie rolled her eyes. “Not a chance. But if you’ve got the makings, I’ll brew another pot.”
Tremelo laughed aloud. Then, guiding her to the adjoining room where the coffee was kept, he waited in companionable silence while Marie made a fresh pot of coffee. She went about the task with the quick efficiency of long practice.
When the coffee started brewing, he led the way back to his office and invited her to sit in a chair across from his desk. “I really don’t want to askyou anything, Mrs. Jackson. I mostly want to see if you can tell me something.”
“What’s that?”
Tremelo leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why is it, out of hundreds of people who have been snatched by that alien thing, that your husband is one of only a handful who haven’t come back dead? Which leads me to suspect that he might still be alive.”
Marie Jackson’s eyes teared suddenly. “You really think Lamont’s still alive?” she whispered.
Tremelo shrugged. “I wish I could tell you so, with any degree of certainty. But I really can’t. On the otherhand . . . ”
He paused for a moment. “The thing about it, Mrs. Jackson—”