Free The Prisoner by Carlos J. Cortes Page B

me.”
    The boy, far from looking chastised, smiled and handed him the box.
    This time Palmer didn’t fall for Timmy’s mischief. Suspicious, he drew the box close to his ear and shook it. A scratching noise issued from within. “What’s inside?”
    “Jiminy.”
    Palmer reached to his top pocket for his reading glasses and opened the box a fraction. A glossy, cockroach-looking insect peeked its feelers out. “I see. But you shouldn’t keep Jiminy in a dark box. Would you like to be in a dark box?”
    Timmy shook his head emphatically.
    “I tell you what: You come with me to the garage, bring your cricket, and we’ll make a little home with wire. Then you can hang its cage up here, feed it, and hear it chirp. Would you like that?”
    The boy nodded. “What does Jiminy eat?”
    Palmer scratched his head and frowned.
One of the eldest serving senators in the country and I don’t know a damn thing about what crickets eat
.
    “Mmmm, I’ll look it up.” He glanced to a corner where a sizable toy rifle stood, half hidden beneath bulky feathered headgear. His knees were killing him, but he inched forward to peer out the window. Through a gap in the tree’s foliage, he could see inside his study.
    “So you keep me covered from here?”
    “Yup. I protect you.”
    “Thank you. Here.” He handed the child his box. “Bring Jiminy along and we’ll fix him a home.” Then he glancedonce more toward his study. “Er, let me have a look at your weapon, please.”
    Timmy reached for his rifle and passed it over.
    Sitting on his haunches on the platform outside the little house, Palmer held the toy and inspected it. Made of a sturdy plastic, it was a faithful reproduction of a real weapon, except for its size. He checked the barrel, the sights, and the scope, nodded, and handed it back to the expectant boy. “Excellent weapon, partner. Make sure you keep it in good condition. I depend on you.”
    Timmy giggled, pride in his eyes.
    As Palmer descended the ladder, Bastien’s face flashed across his mind, and grief welled in his chest. He reached firm ground and looked upward to watch his grandson’s expert descent. Bastien’s face blurred, replaced by that of a spear-wielding man, one of his arms upraised, decked in an embroidered robe and a crown with four high plumes. Onuris, the ancient Egyptian “bringer of fear,” the god of war and the hunt. A most fitting moniker for Nikola Masek.

chapter 11
     

     
    18:42
    In the thirty minutes since the alarm tripped, Sandra Garcia had done nothing but sit at her station while Kosmerl shouted orders and paced the room. She hated the phony half-Slav. She hated his starched blue fatigues, his tall lace-up boots with thick soles that added another two inches to his already towering stature, and his eye. His milky eye was sickening, especially when he closed his good one and play-stared with the white one. Why he didn’t have his cataract, or whatever it was, removed was beyond her. And then there was his phony accent. The idiot would use
ze
for
the
whenever he could. Butabove all she hated his joke.
Der ver zwei peanuts valking down der strasse and von vas … assaulted! Peanut
. Sandra wrinkled her nose in distaste. She’d heard the stupid joke ten times, at least. Once, Sandra had caught a glimpse of his personnel file, and many other goodies, when programmers were rescheduling files to another memory stack. The imbecile was from Massachusetts. His parents were from Slovenia, not Germany, and he’d never traveled abroad.
    She still couldn’t believe Lukas Hurley had entered the restricted area to help hibernators escape. Sandra darted a glance toward Kosmerl. He looked back and closed his good eye.
    Probably Lukas, running with the shits, had mistaken the doors. No, wishful thinking. The door to the restricted area needed a high-security card and the toilet door only a push.
    “Is the pig back?” Kosmerl yelled to a couple of security guards entering the control