“Ow!” Charles feigned a sting. “What was that for?”
“Returning the favor.” Myra pinched his cheek … the one on his face. “I think you have some cooking to do, yes?”
“I do, indeed. Better check the fridge and the supplies.” Charles entered the large pantry off the kitchen, where they kept a second refrigerator. He called out to Myra, “Scalloped potatoes and roasted broccoli?”
“Sounds delish.” Myra walked to a desk in the atrium where she kept a laptop. She began to do a search on Sunnydale. She combed a number of sites, checking for reviews. They were all stellar. Then she took the virtual tour. “Charles? Could you come here?”
Charles entered the atrium, wearing a chef’s apron and holding several potatoes in his hands. “Yes, love.”
Myra couldn’t help but smile. Her husband bore a strong resemblance to the actor Sir Patrick Stewart. No one would have guessed this man in a kitchen smock that read KISS THECOOKwas once a counterintelligence agent. While they never discussed their pasts, the former spy and his best mate, Fergus, once head of Scotland Yard, utilized the tools of their former trade. Between the two men, they had far-reaching ties to the CIA, FBI, DOD, DOS, DOJ, and DHS, and that was just in the U.S. The were also connected to MI5, the United Kingdom’s version of our FBI, and MI6, their form of the U.S.’s CIA. Then there was ASIO and ASIS, Australia’s domestic and international organizations. There were many more, and if they didn’t have an in somewhere, they knew someone who did.
No one knew the real story as to why Charles left the U.K. It would not have been suspicious had it not been for the fact that Charles could never return for fear of being assassinated or arrested. This was one of the best uses of the phrase “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”
“Take a look at this.” She pointed to the screen on her laptop.
He handed the potatoes over to her and leaned in. “Looks quite posh.”
“Right? Very high-end. It’s a gated community with all the amenities. Could be a resort.”
“For old fogies,” Charles teased. Myra gave him an affectionate elbow jab. He continued to watch the video. “What’s the dosh on a place like that?” he asked.
“It’s a sliding scale. Let’s see.” She scrolled through their menu. “The senior living community offers one- and two-bedroom rentals, but it says, ‘prices may vary from state to state.’”
“That is most likely true, but you’d think they could post each state individually, no?”
“Right. They want you to fill out a form, and someone will get in touch.”
“I see one of their slogans includes ‘Embrace Life. Live it to its Fullest’.”
“Not a bad marketing angle.” Myra clicked on the still photos. “Definitely looks like a resort. Florida, New Mexico, and Arizona. They’re magnets for retirees.”
Charles pointed to one of the tabs that read ASSISTEDLIVING. “Check that.”
The photos were fewer than on the active community page. One showed a studio-type space with a private bath and a tiny kitchen behind a Murphy door. Another showed a well-appointed common dining room with murals and floor plants, and a small lobby with more plants. There was an activity room, and a lounge area with a piano. A floor plan sketch was posted next to it. “That looks more like what I had envisioned.”
“Info is sparse, as well.”
Myra went to another tab that said LONG-TERMCARE, which had even fewer visuals. She read the mission statement out loud. “Things change. We change. But passion doesn’t have to end at retirement. As we mature, we want less struggles. Less stress. At Sunnydale, we make life’s transitions easy. Seamless. No need to worry about your future.
We’ve got it covered.”
“And off to the mortuary you go,” Charles said, chortling.
“Charles! That’s a terrible thing to say, although I have to agree with you. I understand the logic and the planning, but …”
Charles kissed her on the top of her head. “My point, exactly. It’s an interesting concept which I would prefer to avoid. At least until I no longer can, or no longer care.” He took the potatoes Myra had placed on the desk. “Now, lovey, I have to scallop these spuds.”
“Do you need any help?” Myra asked half-heartedly. She wanted to spend the time doing a little more research before Lizzie arrived, so she’d have a better sense of the place.
“Crack on. I know your curiosity has reached its peak.”
Myra continued to comb through Sunnydale’s website. She noticed there was no information about who the principals were, or how they started. It was the second red flag. Lizzie’s concern was the first. This would be their next mission. She could feel it in her bones. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket to send a text to Kathryn, just in case she was planning on heading back soon. The Sisters would need her out west. Myra decided a phone call would be a better option. A quick conversation takes much less time and eyestrain than a text.
“Hey, Myra! What’s happening?” The deep voice of Kathryn Lucas boomed. Kathryn was the first one to be vindicated by the Sisterhood. She earned a degree from MIT in nuclear engineering, but when her husband was diagnosed with MS, she quit her job to drive cross-country in the eighteen-wheeler he loved. They were more than husband and wife. They were soulmates. Companions. Kathryn thought her greatest act of love was to enable her husband to ride the passenger seat of the big rig for as long as he could.
One night, while resting at a truck stop, they were accosted by three bikers, men who were no more bikers than Dorothy inThe Wizard of Oz. They were professional men who rode serious motorcycles on the weekend, imagining they were badass. They saw an opportunity to fulfill their fantasy when they spotted Kathryn and her disabled husband. They raped and tortured her, forcing her husband to watch the depravity. He died shortly thereafter.
The story of the vicious attack had made the news. Myra was horrified to discover the men were never brought to justice. She and Nikki reached out to Kathryn and vowed that the degenerate individuals would never be able to do it again. They formed an alliance, and quickly devised the means to bring their goal to fruition. Now, those same men were technically eunuchs, their testicles delivered and returned to them in a jar.
