The dispatch computer pinged twice. Night Man is waiting. The driver reached across, tapped the screen to dismiss the message then swung left onto a side street. Julia frowned. “Is this the way?” The cab driver glanced in the mirror and nodded. The street was one-way and the cars that lined either side accentuated its narrowness.
Tom Hatchett was awakened to the smell of burnt bacon and overcooked eggs. His overly considerate wife was attempting to make him breakfast in bed once again, but she was far from a five-star chef. Each time she attempted to prepare a meal, they ultimately resorted to hot cereal and frozen breakfast sandwiches from the Stop-n-Shop.
Morning mist obscured the field opposite, like steam rising from a hot plate of food—nachos with bubbling cheese or sizzling chicken on a grill. It made her hungry. She pressed her pocketed hands against her stomach to suppress the rumbling. Exhaling created a plume of hot, rising air; she saw it, tasted it, smelled it, and longed for something sweet or minty to cleanse her palate.
He had been the professor, now he was the dummy. Jake called him that, but he was maybe a manikin, no, a marionette, named Marion. Marionette, from Mariol, diminutive idol of the Virgin Mary, and Jake had a virgin birth in his brain waiting to come out: wisdom. “Athena!” Jake shouted, playing with the array of tendons slick with blood stretched between his ceiling and floor.