Judas Horse by April Smith Read Free Book Online

stuff—when you’re waiting on line, or in an elevator—it derails you in the headlong rush to get somewhere, forcing you to see their anguish leaking over everything, like accident victims, beyond propriety. I was touched by Rooney Berwick’s confession. Why would he say this to someone he scarcely knew, except that we are all part of the Bureau family?
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “She has cancer.”
    I hesitated. “That is rough.”
    “What they put her through. They keep doing tests, just to justify their existence.”
    “I hope they’re making her comfortable.”
    “What does that mean?” he asked rhetorically.
    “Well,” I said, fumbling, “at least no pain.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    We abided for a time in the quiet of the lab.
    Finally, he smiled crookedly and latched and unlatched the magazine. “What’s the matter? You don’t like my toy? That’s real gold on there.”
    “A collector’s item,” I agreed. “I wish I could talk more, but I’ve got to get to a meeting.”
    “Everybody’s got a meeting,” Rooney said with spite.
    He gave up the weapon, moving heavily, like everything in his soft, bruised body hurt.
    “The uc name is Darcy DeGuzman,” I told him gently.
    Beyond the quickies we came up with in training, a deep-cover identity is carefully constructed, like a computer-generated creature in a special-effects studio, with input from FBI psychologists and experts in terrorist organizations. You’re trying to create a three-dimensional character that will credibly blend with the target; whose believability will withstand whatever they throw at you. The identity of Darcy DeGuzman, born in a slash of light off a Rexall window in a Virginia mall, had been refined by the focus of a dozen minds to fit the profile of a drifter looking for a cause; someone ripe to be recruited by FAN.
    No more blow-dried hair and prim Brooks Brothers suits. Darcy has dark wild curls and an old purple parka that looks as if it has seen many bus stations and campouts. After an abusive childhood in the ghetto tract in Long Beach, she made her way to the Northwest, “where people are real and care about the environment.” Because of her politics, she’s had trouble holding jobs. She was fired from a biotech company for hacking the system when she learned they wrote programs for cosmetic testing on rabbits. She was booked for assault on an employee of the City of Los Angeles Animal Services during a demonstration outside the shelter. It’s all on phony police records for anyone to verify. With the recession going on, things haven’t worked out, and right now the money’s almost gone; Darcy is single, desperate, and emotionally needy.
    Rooney Berwick was waiting impatiently behind the ID machine.
    “It’s a California license,” I said helpfully. “Darcy DeGuzman just moved up to Oregon.”
    “Got it right here.” Rooney Berwick tapped some papers. He knew his damn job. “Look at the little babies now.”
    Tacked to the wall was a snapshot of four pug puppies with walleyed faces scrambling to get out of a cardboard box.
    “Are those your puppies?”
    “Please hold still, Miss DeGuzman.”
    The camera strobed.
    Rooney said, “Pick it up when you leave.”
    But I could not just leave. Searching for his eyes I said, “I’m really sorry about your mom.”
    He looked away and mumbled, “Have a great day” in the burned-out monotone of mid-level technical services personnel who inhabit the hidden compartments of the Bureau: doing it thirty years and never seen daylight.
Their
ideas, and
their
expertise, make other people famous. Nobody cares about the grunts.
    I joined the team in a damp wood-paneled alcove in the basement. Coffee cups, water bottles, and documents marked OPERATION WILDCAT—TRUSTED AGENTS ONLY littered the table.
    “The firebomb that blew up Ernie’s Meats is consistent with the explosive that killed Steve Crawford,” Special Supervisory Agent Angelo Gomez told us. “The bomb techs are