Free Intelligent Design: Revelations to Apocalypse by J. M. Erickson Page A

really looked around. Various flowers in pots attached to large columns gave the only hint of life in the spartan living room. Paleolithic era weapons and shields hung on every wall, interspersed with, and in stark contrast to, the abstract art scattered throughout the apartment. Expansive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Boston Gardens, and the strong smells of honey, cinnamon and lilac filled the air. Rock and roll played too loud for her liking.
    “It’s another world.”
    Perez and his three other guests worked as a team, laughing and chatting in German while they cleaned and put away the Thanksgiving dinner plates. All three were short women with varying shades and length of red hair, and all three wore loose-fitting turtle-neck blouses over black tights. They gyrated to the music as they worked.
    Riesman sipped the wine she’d brought as a gift along with a purchased, baked apple pie. She still had no idea why Perez was with them. Money, not looks, was her clinical analysis; roommates for the expensive piece of real estate—a penthouse in Boston proper.
    Riesman looked out the grand windows. The building lights flickered on as the city skyline darkened.
    She sipped more of her second glass of expensive wine, uncomfortable both with her task as a spy and where Agent Lee had put the tracking/transceiver device. Riesman walked around, hoping that both gravity and Kegel moves might help, but she only made it worse. She took another sip and tried to distract herself by analyzing the three women.
    With red hair and large, dark eyes, they didn’t fit the German stereotype of the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Aryan. They had the robust quality though. Uniformly five feet in height, they had a broad, square build with muscular legs and arms. Riesman tried to look closely without being rude. Their facial features were not very feminine. All three had sloping foreheads, broad faces, broader jaws, and expansive eyes, set back and well protected by their brows. If it wasn’t for their hair, they’d have quite an exposed overhang, Riesman thought. Images of
Neanderthal
humans came to mind.
    I got to say that for chicks who are pretty homely, they sure act like they’re the hot models around town. You got to respect that.
    Riesman smiled and sipped her wine, glad that she fell well within the American ideal. Feeling suddenly self-conscious of her own appearance, she smoothed out her elegant, midnight-blue pencil dress and chided herself for being catty and shallow.
    The women, still dancing to the music, placed desserts, tea and coffee on the table while Perez finished cleaning the kitchen. The setting and people were so surreal that she found herself forgetting why she was really there. The transceiver’s location reminded her. She walked around the room again. It still didn’t help.
    Who are you, Anthony? Was it the loss of your entire family that changed you into who you are now, whatever that is? Are you in some cult? What happened to that simple, overweight, gregarious guy?
    She realized she was staring at Perez. He fiddled with his small tablet—or was it a large phone?—clearly immersed in something. He’d never struck her as a technophile, but he’d never been far from his tablet all night, and it was the oddest one she’d ever seen: very sleek lines, no ports, almost like a smooth piece of marble. When its screen was off, it looked like polished stone.
    Her gaze wandered to the set of primitive weapons that hung on the wall above his head, then to the martial statues on the table beside him. When she refocused on him, he was nodding and talking quietly to himself or his tablet. He made eye contact and walked over.
    “I’m sorry for the delay, Bobbie Jo. Are you ready for dessert?” he asked.
    Riesman pointed to his tablet.
    “I’ve never seen a tablet like that. Can I take a look?”
    He raised an eyebrow and blinked, as if taking a moment to understand what she was asking. A strange look crossed his face,