Jude
You haven't messed up. They just want to put a face to their names and answer any questions you may have. Did you get called to the principal's office a lot growing up?
Gemma
Teachers threatened to send me to the principal's office a handful of times, but I only had to actually go once. The time I ripped Audrey Templeton's book report in half in second grade.
Jude
You ripped it in half because?
Gemma
She said my hair was ugly and called me ketchup head.
He chuckled. The agent at the next desk looked up questioningly. Jude swiveled his back to the guy.
Jude
Sounds like Audrey Templeton had it coming.
Gemma
I acted rashly but regret nothing. I'm guessing you've never been called to the principal's office.
Jude
Only to receive awards.
Gemma
Ha! Figures. Talk during our phone call tonight about when and where to meet with the agents tomorrow?
Jude
Yes.
The information he relayed to her through their nightly phone calls was dry. But the information she relayed to him, the information about her life that a boyfriend would know, fascinated him. Every detail he learned caused five more questions to spring into his head.
He kept his eye on the clock during their talks and ten minutes before their hour was up, two halves of him would go to war. One half, telling him to enjoy talking to her while he could. One half, depressed that it was almost over.
Their phone calls were the best part of his day.
* * *
Vespa scooters were not the most practical form of transportation during a Maine winter.
For one thing, Gemma's scooter left her unprotected from the elements. For another, she couldn't drive on roads covered by more than an inch or two of fresh snow.
For those reasons she frequently borrowed Orange Thunder from Grandma Colette when driving long distances or on more challenging terrain. She hadn't come in Orange Thunder today because she hadn't known that the meeting with Jude and his FBI bosses would call for challenging terrain . . . until now.
She brought the Vespa to a stop, eyeing the private drive that would take her the rest of the way to her destination. A snowplow hadn't cleared it, so she'd have to cross the remaining distance on foot. If she engaged in an unplanned aerobic workout and power-walked, she'd get there on time. She left her helmet behind and set off.
On this first Friday of March, moody clouds formed swirls against a pearl-gray sky. Pine trees lined both sides of the drive like a closely packed crowd at a concert, all of them wearing mantles of snow. She could hear a burbling creek but couldn’t see it.
Her breath started to huff.
Interesting that they'd chosen this secluded spot between Bangor and Bayview. Did they own this land? Or was it owned by an FBI supporter who'd given them permission to use it?
