The Operator

“Rhode Island?” Almost spilling his water, Michael fumbled for his phone to check the time. “Is this right?” he mumbled, words becoming clearer. “You,” he said, snagging the copilot as she went by. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” she said, taking his hand from her sleeve. “We need a three-hour prep time to go if we don’t leave within the hour,” she added, hoisting her daybag and heading to the bright rectangle of light.

Expresison sour, Michael plucked at the black-and-silver pin-striped shirt he’d had on when Bill had darted him in the locker room. “You pulled me off task. Why?” Michael asked, and Bill stifled his smile as the realization crashed over the younger man that he wasn’t making the Evocane drop, and was thereby missing his chance to take Peri out. He could almost see his unspoken question: had Bill known he was going to kill her, or was it just happenstance?

Bill put his ankle on his knee. “I was this close to letting you meet with her, Michael,” he said, enjoying the chance to see Michael sweat. “But you need to keep this gravy train going a few months more. Jack and Allen can handle getting Peri a stopgap supply of Evocane.”

Silent, Michael drank his water, staring out the window at the black cars gathering a dusting of snow. Anxious to get moving, Bill stood. “Don’t be sullen,” he said as he grabbed Michael by the shoulder and yanked him out of his chair. “You have more important things to do than be a delivery boy.” Submitting to his frustration, he gave Michael a little shove, pleased when he caught himself against the bulkhead. “It took me five years to get a bloody audience with Helen. You got one with me saying ‘pretty please.’ There’s a suit in the lav. Put it on.”

Ignoring him, Michael eyed his empty water bottle as he held on to the bulkhead and found his balance. Looking toward the back, he exclaimed, “Can I get another water here?”

Michael sounded peeved, not angry, and encouraged, Bill stood in the aisle and gestured for him to go put the suit on. “There’s water in the car,” he said, trying to hurry him along, but a crew member had come forward with a new bottle, and Michael grabbed it, wobbly as he brushed past Bill and took the stairs. He slipped on the last step, looking like nothing more than a wealthy drug addict coming off a high as he fell, legs splaying in the snow.

“You should have put on the suit,” Bill muttered as he followed him onto the stairs, squinting as the fresher air smelling of snow hit him. But he jerked to a stop when the world made a hiccup and he was back on the plane. Shocked, he looked out the window to see Michael carefully navigate the last step and stumble to the waiting car.

Lips parted, Bill stood where he was, astounded. Michael had skip-hopped. The man had actually skip-hopped. Bill hadn’t known he’d been practicing, having utterly refused to try it in front of anyone who might use the situation to wipe him. It both pleased and worried Bill. It was when drafters started experimenting on their own that he usually had to wipe them. Peri had been the worst of the lot, but it was that same experimenting that made her so versatile.

The plastic covering Michael’s suit rustled as Bill took it from the bathroom. His pace slow in thought, he stepped out into the cold again, grimacing at the bright light and the black line of clouds to the west. “Good God!” Bill heard faintly as he stomped down the stairs, gesturing for one of the drivers to open the trunk. “Why is it so cold?”

“It’s January,” someone answered, and Bill carefully laid the suit in the back. It whined shut of its own accord, and Bill slid in beside Michael, appreciating the warm, running car. He didn’t have to say a word. The driver knew where they were going better than he did.

Michael was still groggy, but his eyes were focusing again. Wanting to test his reflexes, Bill tossed a comb at him. Michael caught it, and the two men exchanged wary glances.

“We’re going to see Helen Yeomon,” Bill said, noting there was only one attendant at the airport entrance as the white bar rose up to let them leave. “She’s the one making sure you have cookies in your jar and that Aston in your drive. Call her ma’am.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

It was breathy and disinterested, and Bill fought the urge to smack him again. “She likes you,” he said. “Don’t fuck this up.”

Michael chuckled—probably because he’d gotten Bill to swear. “Then maybe you should tell me what I’m doing here.”

Bill let his irritation show. It was the easiest way to manipulate Michael. “She’s worried about her investment,” he said, careful with his word choice since everything would end up in Helen’s ears.

“She’s worried about me?” Michael was oblivious to the homes becoming more expensive the closer to the coast they went: marble and stone, Victorian, French, and Italian Renaissance—all with a view of the Atlantic. Newport had once been the summer playground of young-America’s rich, and one by one, the abandoned mansions were being reclaimed from the local preservation society as a new class of wealthy began to entertain once again on a large scale.

“I’m not the one being dragged back to your stable kicking and screaming,” Michael complained, not impressed by the million-dollar palaces slumbering under the snow, waiting for the summer’s party season. “You’re the one she should be worried about, continuing to withhold an advancement that will widen my abilities.” He glanced warily at Bill. “I’m not working with any more anchors. I saw what you did to Peri, and I won’t let you wipe me.”