“Call me Marie, please.”
“—ah, Marie, is that none of the people who were with your husband when he was snatched have come back. Except the two soldiers who seem to have been killed almost immediately. That’s completely atypical from the normal pattern. Which leads me to suspect—and don’t ask me to explain it logically, because I can’t—that he might still be alive. Actually, I think they’re all still alive.”
Marie started crying. She lowered her head and dug into her purse, coming up a moment later with a packet of Kleenex. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “I love that man so much.”
In the middle of blowing her noise, a little laugh burst through the tissues. “Damn if I don’t think you’re right, Professor Tremelo!”
“Call me Miggy, please.”
She lowered her tissue-clutching hand and beamed happily through still-moist eyes. “Miggy. The thing is, I always told that rascal he’d probably live through hellfire. That’s part of why I married him, even though lots of people said he was too old for me. But I was no damn fool. I wanted a husband been through the wringer already and come out with some sense.”
Marie gurgled laughter. “I even put up with his damned puns! He’s such a quick, clever kind of guy, you know. People don’t think it, just looking at him, but—”
* * *
While Miggy Tremolo listened attentively, Marie Jackson talked about her husband non-stop for two hours. There was nothing of the guarded and carefully phrased description she’d given the government’s psychologists. Just the rambling speech of a woman depicting a man with whom she’d shared a life and raised a family since she was nineteen years old.
When she was done, Marie glanced guiltily at her watch. “Oh, shit,” she murmured. “My boss is gonna have a conniption.”
Tremelo studied her for a moment, weighing a decision. Just listening to Marie’s way of thinking, he realized, had done more for him than every official analysis piled up in heaps all over his office. She’d managed to crystallize what Tremelo had begun to suspect.
There was a common thread between those who got snatched, which was missing from those who didn’t. What was so unusual about this one group, Miggy was certain, was that most of the members were of the type who would not normally have been snatched. Only their accidental physical contact with Salinas had gotten them taken.
Something different . . . And it had precious little to do with the psychologists’ elaborate “profiles.”
He swiveled his chair and stared out the window. Well, that wasn’t being quite fair to the shrinks. There did seem to be a connection with anger levels and belief patterns. But Miggy thought the key was something else, which was such a practical talent that the psychologists overlooked it. And if there was no polysyllabic psychological term for that talent, there was a popular expression which captured the spirit of the thing. I’m from Missouri. Show me.
He swiveled the chair back around and gave Marie a quick glance. The woman was not relaxed any longer. She was beginning to fidget, her mind obviously on the firestorm she would face when she returned to work.
Of all that party of snatchees’ next of kin, he knew, she was the one who was most hurt. Emotionally and financially. It was within his power to do something about the second part. And he could use an assistant who made decent coffee and—most of all—could help him cut through the habitual “caution waffle” of scientists. He’d bet this woman wouldn’t just cut it. She’d slice it to the bone.
Besides, he thought cheerfully, she intimidates the hell out of the troll. Who knows? Maybe the creature will even keep her voice down, with Marie around. Low enough, anyway, that I don’t have to listen to it.
“Forget him,” he said. “How’d you like to come to work for me instead?”
She peered at him quizzically. “For how long? And how much you paying per hour?”
Tremelo laughed. “I’ve got no idea how long. And as for hourly wages, don’t worry about it. The one thing the government has piled on me that I don’t mind is a budget you wouldn’t believe.” He snorted sarcastically. “And they’re complaining because I’m not spending money fast enough.”
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