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  Specifically, he would become the administrative overseer of a newly created two-man post dubbed Global Field Supervisor, Security Operations.

  They could take the man out of the field, but they couldn’t take the field out of his job description, he had told himself.

  That smidgeon of gallows humor had given him zero consolation.

  Now Thibodeau stood on the platform of his Detecto and frowned — a deep, disgusted frown that pulled the corners of his mouth far down his bearded face. The beard was a couple of years old and neatly trimmed. Over the past six months he had let it fill out to hide his jowly cheeks and the heavy dewlaps under his chin. For a while after his shooting he’d held at his usual 235 pounds in spite of the changes he saw in the mirror — but that was a deceptive measure. Thibodeau’s muscles had lost weight as they shrank and deteriorated through disuse, even as the extra calories from his unmodified consumption of food and drink turned to fat. This had equalized things on the scale, and he had grown thicker, looser, and chunkier everywhere on his body without putting on so much as an ounce.

  The problem was that it got harder to burn off fat as you lost muscle tone, and it would continue piling on unless you dieted, exercised, or got into a disciplined health routine that combined the two. Thibodeau hadn’t. And he’d gained from his 235. The weight had crept up on him slowly, seemed to wrap itself around him like a huge silent slug. The warning signs had been present, of course. His vanishing jaw line, his thickening waist. But as long as he’d hovered within range of that 235 mark, they also had been dismissible. Thibodeau had felt his slacks — and undershorts, to give frankness its due — start to pinch and grab in all the critically, uncomfortably wrong spots. Felt his shirt tighten at the belly, its sleeves constricting around his shoulders and arms. If gradual upward nudges of the scale’s lower indicator slide from 236 to 237, 240, and even 245 pounds balanced it, that seemed to fall well within his personal tolerance zone. Especially when he could lower his measured weight by 2, 3, sometimes a notch below 3½ of those apparent pounds by removing his shoes, his shirt, his shoes and shirt, and maybe some other articles of clothing if necessary — say after a few days of hearty banqueting, for instance.

  Another trick Thibodeau had discovered was to step off the scale and recheck that the arrow on the beam and its frame met exactly. If they didn’t, it could throw off his weight reading by a quarter pound or more, and he’d have to fiddle with its balance knob to make an adjustment. And although it distressed him when he’d needed to bump the upper indicator to its 250-pound poise on the bar while standing almost naked on the platform, he’d extended his rather malleable tolerance zone by reassuring himself that he would soon do something to trim down — cut out the andouille sausages and cornbread, switch to a lighter brew, keep his hands from reaching for the refrigerator door late at night.

  Soon being one of those dangerous words with a value that was impossible to calculate, and therefore notoriously wide open to interpretation.

  According to the scale’s measurement beam, Thibodeau was now up to 299¼ pounds. Less than 1 pound shy of the boldly engraved and enameled number 300 on the beam. A tremendous increase of 54 pounds in eighteen months.

  That was 299¼ pounds, with every last stitch of clothing except for his socks and boxers stripped off, flung in a large pile on the chair behind him.

  “Gone an’ turned myself into un ouaouaron,” Thibodeau said in a low growl, using a Cajun word for bullfrog that reflected the cultural penchant for onomatopoeia, mimicking the sounds made by the creatures at dawn and dusk. “A fuckin’ ouaouaron,” he repeated, inserting a colorful modifier of his own fancy.

  He did not know why he’d chosen this particular morning to take his weight. Having acknowledged the need to drop excess ballast, Thibodeau had gotten onto the scale infrequently over the past couple of months to avoid the comedown of reading premature and discouraging numbers. The truth was, he hadn’t yet gotten full-swing into his diet. Hadn’t really decided which foods would be the best to cut back on or investigated which kinds of beer would be light-bodied, palatable replacements for his favorite malt. He’d been too busy with work, and these decisions took careful forethought. Nobody who rushed into them was ever going to buy a winning ticket.

  So why the scale? Thibodeau wondered. Why today? Why climb aboard now, when Tom Ricci, joint holder of the global field supervisor slot, its buck rapid deployment man — and one of Thibodeau’s least favorite people in the world — was due for his briefing on the security upgrades implemented here at SanJo HQ while he’d been away on his solo safari for le Chat Sauvage? Why the hell do it knowing he was in for certain disappointment… and for that matter embarrassment, unless he got off its platform and back into his uniform tout de suite?

  Thibodeau stood there on the scale another few minutes, looking down at his sadly fallen build. He had fussed all he could with its knob and indicator slides. He was wearing little more than air. And the measurement beam had gone on hanging in perfect, balanced suspension at 299¼ pounds.

  Not that he needed a numeric reading to appreciate the indignities he’d inflicted upon himself. It was evident from the bare, bulging pillow of flesh into which his once-taut stomach had grown, the soft rolls of flab above the hips too kindly known as “love handles,” and, most depressingly for Thibodeau, the pads of adipose tissue over his breastbone that showed early evidence of transforming into what were sometimes — in a much too crass and unkind fashion — referred to as “man titties.”

  But he’d killed enough time inspecting himself. More than enough. Ricci would be on his way over from his office down the hall, and Thibodeau damned well wanted to be back inside his pants before he showed up.

  His lips still pulled into a scowl, he got off the scale to put on his clothes, disconcerted by the loud, banging rattle of its beam and platform bearings as they were relieved of his prodigious weight.

  Thibodeau was trying to stuff the middle button of his shirt through its hole when he heard three sharp, brisk knocks at his door.

  Tom Ricci, man of action. Predictably right on schedule.

  “Un instant,” Thibodeau called out, working in the recalcitrant button. “Wait just a minute—”

  Ricci gave the door another quick knock, then took hold of the outer doorknob and let himself in.

  Again, predictably.

  His shirttails out over the open waistband of his pants, Thibodeau looked at him with an annoyance he made no attempt to conceal… and a sudden flush of embarrassment that he was hoping could be hidden.

  “Thought I asked you to hang on,” he said.

  Ricci stood inside the entry, turned the dial of his wristwatch toward Thibodeau.

  “Don’t have a spasm on me,” he said. “We’ve got an appointment.”

  Thibodeau regarded him another moment, disconcerted. Then he inhaled, holding in the breath — and his stomach — as he tucked, zipped, and hooked himself into his uniform slacks.

  “Okay,” he said on his exhale. He nodded toward his desk. “Grab a seat an’ we’ll talk.”

  * * *

  Julia Gordian felt convinced Vivian was a shoo-in for adoption. There was still the cat test ahead, true, but she wasn’t too worried. That was pretty much a guaranteed cinch.

  She stood looking out the window of the In the Money Shop at the introduction and walking area next to the center’s dusty parking lot, where Viv, a one-and-a-half-year-old grey whose career as a racer had ended after she’d broken the wrong way out of the gate in two of her first three starts, was being strolled around on a leash by her prospective rescuers, a seemingly nice enough family named the Wurmans — mother, father, and eight-or nine-year-old son — from up around Fremont. The dogs were always brought out to the people who came to look at them, as opposed to the people entering the kennels, which was how it usually worked at animal shelters. This was because, in addition to being weak and malnourished, some of the new arrivals had not yet gotten their vaccinations, were
susceptible to canine diseases for which human beings might be unwitting carriers, and were therefore segregated until Rob Howell had gotten them checked out by his regular vet and approved as ready for placement. A small handful of visitors would complain about the policy, wanting to have their pick of all the greyhounds on hand, but Rob tended to send that type on their way as politely as he could — his position being that anybody who couldn’t find a dog to love among the half dozen or so he was willing to show as available candidates wasn’t qualified for greyhound ownership.

  Julia supposed Rob’s criteria were about the same as those a child-care worker would apply to couples interested in adopting a baby… although she’d actually had to wonder a couple of times if his rules weren’t even more stringently set and enforced.

  “You have to start the screening process the minute people leave their car,” he’d told her on her first day at work. “Look for a good fit, and don’t let your eagerness to place the dogs affect your judgment. Watch how folks act, listen to what they say, get a feel for the vibes they send out to the dogs, and the vibes the dogs send out to them. Much as I want permanent homes for our greys, they’re better off as tenants with us than in a bad home where they aren’t getting proper care.”

  Watching from behind the shop’s sales counter, elbows propped on it beside the cash register, Julia had seen encouraging signs that the Wurman-Vivian vibe exchange was tuned to a harmonious cosmic bonding frequency. Vivian’s leash was now in the hands of Papa Wurman, who was smiling over at Mama Wurman, who was beaming right back at him as an excited Junior Wurman crouched beside the dog and gently stroked her sides. Viv, meanwhile, was relishing the attention. A good fit? They appeared to be striking up the very music of the spheres.

  Julia realized she’d been humming a melody to herself, recognized it as the chorus to the old Broadway song “Matchmaker,” and was starting to wonder how that archaic musical strain had managed to surface from the junk bin of her post-Boomer memory storehouse when her cell phone suddenly began to tweedle.

  She pulled it from the belt case clipped to her jeans, glanced at the Caller ID number on its display, and smiled as she fingered the TALK button.

  “Yente’s Canine Dating Service, open sunrise to sunset,” she said. “To Life!”

  A hesitant, “Excuse me?” at the other end.

  Julia chuckled. Roger Gordian. A biz whiz without parallel, but more than a little humor impaired.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said. “Don’t hang up, you’ve got the right number.”

  “Oh,” Gordian replied. “For a second there I thought you said…”

  “Just amusing myself. My boss is out back feeding the dogs, and I’m waiting to give my maiden cat test. He wants me to get the experience. We really should have given it to Viv… she’s one of our sweetest greys… before a family showed up and fell in love with her, but somebody got their signals crossed. Either they never told Rob they had a cat during their phone interview, or he forgot to make note of it, it’s been so crazy around here we can’t be sure. Either way I’ve got to deal with it.”

  “Oh,” Gordian said again. A pause. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s—?”

  “A cat test’s for dogs that may be going to homes where there’s already a kitty-in-residence,” she said. “You know how easygoing greys are, but problems can happen when some of them mistake cats for bunnies.”

  “As in rabbits?”

  “They’re used as lures on the course,” Julia said. “I think the law in most states is that track owners have to use mechanical ones, and they do during races to keep the police off their backs. But when they’re training the dogs out of sight… well, never mind, I won’t gross you out with some of the nauseating stories I’ve heard. Bottom line, we need to be sure our dogs are compatible with other pets.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean there’s a supply of disposable cats at the center.”

  “Nope. Only an ornery old calico named Leona that the people who run this place got from the ASPCA,” Julia said. “They keep her safe and overfed for her unfaltering dedication to the cause, don’t you fret.”

  “As long as you tell me not to,” Gordian said. “Anyway, if you’re busy with things, I can call back—”

  “No, believe me, I really was just waiting around for man and beast to get acquainted,” Julia said. “What’s up?”

  “Well, your mother and I were hoping we could see you this weekend,” Gordian said. “You could come for dinner tomorrow, naturally bring Jack and Jill, and the three of you sleep over at the house. If you want, of course. Then stick around with us Sunday for brunch and pampering—”

  “Sounds tempting, Dad. Especially that last part about getting the princess treatment. But the timing’s rotten,” she said. “Rob… Rob Howell, that is…”

  “He’s your boss, right?”

  “Right, sorry,” Julia said. “Anyway, Rob works the graveyard shift at a hotel called the Fairwinds, I think it’s somewhere on Highway 1. He mainly does audits there, but every so often handles the switchboard and reception desk, too, and I guess he’s offered to sub for one of the day clerks for the next couple of weekends — they’re buddies and the guy has a family emergency. Besides, Rob has a newborn and could use the extra money.”

  “Which leaves you running the show at the center.”

  “All by my lonesome. I wish there was somebody else. Rob’s looking for more help. With his wife busy taking care of the baby, though, I can’t exactly lay too much on her lap.” She paused. “Any chance of us getting together during the week? I’m off Monday and Wednesday, and could meet you at your office for one of those father- daughter lunches where you lecture me about how I need to find an honest paying job.”

  “Now there’s what I call a real temptation,” Gordian said. “Unfortunately, I’m out of town from Monday morning until Thursday or Friday. Washington, D.C. You remember Dan Parker?”

  Julia smiled. Was it only her parents, or were all of them always asking their adult children whether they could remember people they’d known their entire lives? With her father, the person in question was very often Dan, whom Julia had practically grown up around and even invited to her wedding. Her mom was likewise constantly astounded that she had any recollection of her Uncle Will, who had been one of Julia’s most dearly loved relatives, and was a frequent visitor to the Gordian home until his death from a sudden heart attack when she was eighteen or nineteen years old. What were they thinking? That their kids went through childhood and adolescence with their memory banks set on auto-delete? That they were oblivious to everything around them until they were, oh, say, forty-five, fifty, or so? Or were these supposed to be trick questions?

  “Hmm, Dan Parker,” she said, deliberately keeping any trace of sarcasm out of her voice. “He’s that buddy of yours from Vietnam, no? The one who used to be a congressman in San Jose?”

  “That’s right, he was at your wedding reception,” Gordian replied, sounding pleased by her name-recognition ability. “These days Dan’s an executive with Sedco, the energy firm, and we’ll be meeting with the rest of its board to negotiate the final points of a fiberoptic deal.”

  Julia looked out the window, saw the Wurmans were leading Viv back from the parking lot. “Guess we’d better hold off on making plans till next week,” she said.

  “I guess.”

  The shop’s front door opened.

  “Have to run,” Julia said. “Good luck with your trip, Dad. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, honey,” Gordian said. “Oh… and l’chiam, by the way,” he added.

  And then hung up.

  Julia looked at the phone and blinked in surprise, a grin of colossal amusement breaking across her face.

  Parents, she thought.

  The wonders truly, truly never did cease.

  * * *

  The same yet different was how Rollie Thibodeau had been trying to characterize the overall facility security picture at UpLink International, and p
articularly UpLink HQ SanJo, since Ricci’s departure.

  The same, more or less, insofar as its requirements and policies.

  Different, slightly, insofar as their implementation, with heightened emphasis on incident readiness and management.

  There had also been some modifications to the electronic security systems — what amounted to minor tinkering in the area of general surveillance and countersurveillance operations, with more significant enhancements regarding the detection and control of chemical and biological threats.

  “Some of it’s these times we’re living in. Everything going on around the world, you got to take extra precautions,” Thibodeau said now, looking across his desk at Ricci. “Plus we been bitten once, you know.”

  Ricci sat motionless. When he answered, it was in an odd, clipped tone.

  “Tell me about the techware,” he said.

  “There’s operational gear big and small, but we’ll start with the onsite basics,” Thibodeau said. “We got new concealed weapon detectors in most of our buildings. And not just at entries. We been thinking about indoor environments. Walk around any floor here and you’ll pass through a hidden magnetic scanner.”

  “I’ve noticed them at the hallway corners,” Ricci said. “I can see where some door frames have been replaced.”

  “Figured you would,” Thibodeau said. “Later on, I’m gonna walk you down to the monitoring station, show you right where they all are—”

  “Don’t bother,” Ricci said. “They’re okay. Most people won’t spot them. The ones who do would be good enough to make any kind of scanners we install. I just want to know how they perform.”