The Face of Death

The offices are empty. Everyone is occupied, doing the things I sent them off to do. Callie is processing the Langstrom home. James is probably dealing with Michael Kingsley's computer. It's been a day of sprinting, and it's not over yet.

Kirby continues to jabber away, and I watch her as we go through the offices. I realize that as she speaks, her eyes are roaming. Taking in the surroundings. They pause the longest on the whiteboard, and then move on, missing nothing.

I've seen eyes like hers before, on leopards or lions or the human versions thereof. They flicker like candles, seeming casual but seeing everything.

We all go into my office and sit down.

'So now that we're all friends,' Kirby says, still perky, 'let's talk about how I work. I'm very good, you should know that. I've never lost a client, and I don't plan to--knock on wood!' She raps my desk with a knuckle, grins. 'I'm trained in surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, and I can use, gosh, just about anything when it comes to weapons.'

She counts off on her fingers. 'Knives, handguns, most automatic weapons. I'm okay as a sniper as long as it's not past four hundred yards. The usual.' Another one of those twinkle-eyed smiles. ' 'Mess with the best, die like the rest,' silly, I know, but I just love that saying, don't you?'

'Uh, sure,' I reply.

'I have one rule.' She waggles a finger at me, a good-natured warning. 'No leaving me out of the loop. I have to know everything to do my job. If you fudge on that, and I find out, then I'll have to quit. I'm not trying to be a meanie-beanie, that's just the way it has to be.'

'I understand,' I say.

Meanie-beanie?

'Okay.' She continues talking, a juggernaut of words. Kirby is like a freight train. Hop on board or get rolled over, the choice is yours.

'Now, I know you're probably looking at me and thinking, 'Who is this airhead?' Tommy's an honest kind of guy--cute too'--she winks at me, conspiratorial--'so I'm sure he felt he just had to mention that I maybe, allegedly, might have killed some people in the past for the military-industrial complex. And you're looking at that, and then you're looking at this.' She indicates the whole of herself with a sweeping gesture. 'And you're thinking, maybe she's a wack-a-doodle, am I right?'

'Maybe a little,' I admit.

She smiles. 'Well, this is just who I am. I'm a California girl, always have been, always will be. I like my hair blond, I like two-piece bikinis, and I love the smell of the ocean.' She shimmies in her chair. 'And I love to dance!' Another multi-kilowatt smile. 'I have what they called on my psych eval 'an overdeveloped ability to assign certain human beings to the category of other.' The average person isn't built to kill, you see. It's not a part of the makeup. But we have to kill, all the time. Soldiers have to. SWAT snipers have to.' She nods once, toward me.

'You have to. So what to do, what to do, problems, problems. The answer is: We decide that they are other. They aren't like us, maybe they aren't really human, whatever. Once that's done-- and this is something the psychological and military communities have known for a long time--they're a lot easier to kill, let me tell you.' Another perky smile, but this time she doesn't let it reach her eyes. I think she's doing this on purpose, to show me the killer she keeps inside. 'I'm not a psycho. I don't get all jolly about blowing people away, I'm not into all that 'guts to grease the treads of our tanks' stuff.' She laughs as though this idea is the silliest thing ever, ho ho ho. 'Nope, it's just really easy for me to decide who the enemy is, and hey, once that's done, they're not a member of my club anymore, you know?'

'Yes,' I reply. 'I do.'

'Coolness.' The Kirby-train rushes on. She talks in waves, in a way that makes it impossible to get a word in without interrupting her.

'Now, as far as the resume goes, I have a degree in abnormal psych, and I speak fluent Spanish. I was in the CIA for five years, and the NSA for six. I spent a lot of time in Central and South America doing, ummmmm, odd jobs.' Another conspiratorial wink, which gives me a little bit of a chill. 'Got bored and quit--and gosh, was that hard. I could tell you some stories. Those intel agency guys really take themselves seriously. They didn't want to let me go.' She smiles and again it doesn't quite bleed into her eyes. 'I convinced 'em.'

Alan raises a single eyebrow, but says nothing.

'So--where was I? Oh yeah: I got out and spent a few months wrapping up some old business. A couple of really icky guys from Central America were bugging me. They thought I was still working for the NSA.' She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. 'Some men never learn the meaning of the word no. It was almost enough to make me swear off Latin men--but not quite!' She laughs, and I find myself smiling against my will at this dangerous pixie of a woman. 'I spent about six months beaching-out, got even more bored, and decided it might be fun to go into the private sector. It pays a lot better, let me tell you. I still get to shoot people every now and then, and I can make it to the beach in between jobs.' She spreads her arms in a 'ta-dah'

gesture. 'And that's the story of little old me.' She leans forward.

'Now let's hear about the client and the cuckoo-bird that's after her.'

With a last glance at Alan, who sends me a subtle shrug, I launch into the story of Sarah Langstrom and The Stranger. Kirby focuses on me with those leopard eyes, listening with intensity, nodding to let me know that she's hearing what I'm saying.

I finish and she sits back, thinking, tapping her fingers on the chair. She smiles.

'Okay, I think I have the picture.' She turns to Alan. 'So, how are you going to feel about having me at your home, big man?' Another playful punch to the arm. 'More important, how is your wife going to feel?'

Alan doesn't answer right away. He fixes his gaze on Kirby, thoughtful. She bears this scrutiny without a seeming care in the world.

'You'll protect my wife and the girl?'

'With my life. Though geez, let's hope it doesn't come to that, huh?'

'And you're good?'

'Not the best there is, but darn close.' Unending cheerfulness, the optimistic assassin.

Alan nods. 'Then I'm glad to have you. And Elaina will be too.'

'Coolness.' She turns to me with the snapping-fingers look of someone remembering something they'd almost forgot. 'Oh hey. I need to ask. If the cuckoo-bird does come calling--do you need him alive or dead?'

The smile doesn't falter. I look at this very dangerous woman and consider my answer. If I ask her, Kirby Mitchell will consign The Stranger to the category of 'other.' If he shows his face, she'll kill him with a smile and head off to the beach for a bonfire and some beer. I only hesitate because I understand; this is not a theoretical question she's posed.

Want me to kill him? Hey, no problem. I'll do that, and then we'll hit a club, drink some margaritas. Coolness.

'I'd prefer him alive,' I say. 'But keeping Elaina and Sarah safe is the priority.'

It's a shitty, evasive answer. She takes it in stride.

'Gotcha. Now that that's settled, I'm going to head over to the hospital. I'll be there until tomorrow, and then we'll move her over to your place, big guy.' She stands up. 'Can one of you escort me out of here? And hey, can you believe all this rain?'

'I'll take you,' Alan says.

She whirls out of the office, leaving me feeling like I've just been run over, but, somehow, in a good way.

I look at my watch. It's after six o'clock. Ellen, our in-house counsel, might still be here. I pick up the phone and dial her extension.

'Ellen Gardner,' she answers. She sounds calm, unruffled. Ellen always sounds this way. It's just a little bit inhuman.

'Hi, Ellen, it's Smoky. I need a subpoena.'

'Hold that thought,' she answers without hesitation. 'Let me get a notepad.'