been raised by wolves. At least, not entirely. Though she’d been known to hang out with them now and again.
And in they went.
The first thing that struck her was the immense size of the place; the outside building had been whopping but still hadn’t come close to showcasing how the aquarium was essentially a gigantic warehouse on the bay filled with all things fishy.
The second thing that struck her was fishy: the odor. It wasn’t awful, but it was pretty constant . . . it was how the woman smelled, but concentrated. She knew her brain would adjust and eventually tell her nose it didn’t smell like much at all in there. Get to work, brain, start lying through my teeth! Or whatever you need to do in there to fool my nose.
The third was the sense of desertion. The place was a tomb—literally; there were fish skeletons all over, and the size of the place emphasized how empty it was. Betsy stifled the urge to shout, “Helloooooooo” for the childish pleasure of hearing the echo.
All in all: excellent! Maybe this little cross-country errand wouldn’t take long. Maybe she and her insane husband could be back on the plane tomorrow morning, where he could cheerfully continue his insanity at thirty thousand feet. When his insanity ran its course, as she prayed it must, she, too, would be insane, and all their friends. But they’d be insane together! One great big happy family of utter nut balls.
She fished out her cell and double-checked the info. Madison Fehr, former intern at the aquarium. In some kind of trouble, the kind where a coroner had to be called and police reports filed. Madison’s mother had pulled a Princess Leia: Help me, Obi-Betsy. You’re my only hope. And so here she was.
“Do you know Madison Fehr?” she asked the redhead, who was staring ahead like one of those creepy stuffed animals that could walk or bark or turn a somersault, but did nothing but stand and stare after the batteries ran down. “Is she here?”
The redhead grimaced . . . a good trick, since most people she mojo’d behaved like robots she alone could command. No expression, no input of their own. Just blind, unquestioning obedience. “Yes,” she replied, the ugh plain to hear in her voice. “And, yes.”
“Okay, take me to wherever she’d be in this cement cavern. Can you do that?”
“Yes. And, yes.”
“Then giddyap, Red.”
The redhead actually turned around and met Betsy’s gaze, which no one mojo’d had everdone. She gave Betsy a look that clearly conveyed what she thought of the instructions, then slooooowly obeyed.
I must be losing my touch! Or she’s a special case. People either instantly submitted to her hostile takeover of their brain, or fought like pissed cats. Or it didn’t work with them at all. Not this . . . this eventual, sullen obedience. Betsy was less than five years dead; she had no idea what to do but plow ahead. Some people have a higher tolerance for booze, some for drugs, some for ye olde look-into-my-eyes vampire mojo. Live and learn! Or if you can’t do both, try for just one. And I know which one I’d try for . . .
She followed the redhead through the semi-gloom, trying not to be distracted by the exhibits of shiny fish, lobsters, and jellyfish. She was surprised to discover that parts of the Aquarium were more like classrooms and research labs—she’d figured the whole fishy warehouse to be one big tourist trap. See the penguins, learn about them, then buy a stuffed one for the low, low price of $49.99.
But, no, people apparently did serious work here as well as hosing down seals, cleaning up the IMAX theater, and selling things no one needed at outrageous markups. Did you have to get a master’s degree in marine biology or fish zoology or whatever before you could say, “Ticket, please”?
One of the labs opened into a sort of kitchen area/staff break room, and it was down there that she got a look at Madison Fehr for the first time. She hadn’t been able to
And in they went.
The first thing that struck her was the immense size of the place; the outside building had been whopping but still hadn’t come close to showcasing how the aquarium was essentially a gigantic warehouse on the bay filled with all things fishy.
The second thing that struck her was fishy: the odor. It wasn’t awful, but it was pretty constant . . . it was how the woman smelled, but concentrated. She knew her brain would adjust and eventually tell her nose it didn’t smell like much at all in there. Get to work, brain, start lying through my teeth! Or whatever you need to do in there to fool my nose.
The third was the sense of desertion. The place was a tomb—literally; there were fish skeletons all over, and the size of the place emphasized how empty it was. Betsy stifled the urge to shout, “Helloooooooo” for the childish pleasure of hearing the echo.
All in all: excellent! Maybe this little cross-country errand wouldn’t take long. Maybe she and her insane husband could be back on the plane tomorrow morning, where he could cheerfully continue his insanity at thirty thousand feet. When his insanity ran its course, as she prayed it must, she, too, would be insane, and all their friends. But they’d be insane together! One great big happy family of utter nut balls.
She fished out her cell and double-checked the info. Madison Fehr, former intern at the aquarium. In some kind of trouble, the kind where a coroner had to be called and police reports filed. Madison’s mother had pulled a Princess Leia: Help me, Obi-Betsy. You’re my only hope. And so here she was.
“Do you know Madison Fehr?” she asked the redhead, who was staring ahead like one of those creepy stuffed animals that could walk or bark or turn a somersault, but did nothing but stand and stare after the batteries ran down. “Is she here?”
The redhead grimaced . . . a good trick, since most people she mojo’d behaved like robots she alone could command. No expression, no input of their own. Just blind, unquestioning obedience. “Yes,” she replied, the ugh plain to hear in her voice. “And, yes.”
“Okay, take me to wherever she’d be in this cement cavern. Can you do that?”
“Yes. And, yes.”
“Then giddyap, Red.”
The redhead actually turned around and met Betsy’s gaze, which no one mojo’d had everdone. She gave Betsy a look that clearly conveyed what she thought of the instructions, then slooooowly obeyed.
I must be losing my touch! Or she’s a special case. People either instantly submitted to her hostile takeover of their brain, or fought like pissed cats. Or it didn’t work with them at all. Not this . . . this eventual, sullen obedience. Betsy was less than five years dead; she had no idea what to do but plow ahead. Some people have a higher tolerance for booze, some for drugs, some for ye olde look-into-my-eyes vampire mojo. Live and learn! Or if you can’t do both, try for just one. And I know which one I’d try for . . .
She followed the redhead through the semi-gloom, trying not to be distracted by the exhibits of shiny fish, lobsters, and jellyfish. She was surprised to discover that parts of the Aquarium were more like classrooms and research labs—she’d figured the whole fishy warehouse to be one big tourist trap. See the penguins, learn about them, then buy a stuffed one for the low, low price of $49.99.
But, no, people apparently did serious work here as well as hosing down seals, cleaning up the IMAX theater, and selling things no one needed at outrageous markups. Did you have to get a master’s degree in marine biology or fish zoology or whatever before you could say, “Ticket, please”?
One of the labs opened into a sort of kitchen area/staff break room, and it was down there that she got a look at Madison Fehr for the first time. She hadn’t been able to
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