Chapter 7

Now, as a soon-to-be high school grad I have to admit that two solid days chained to Maria as a lowly frosh had gotten the teamwork idea across. But that had just been the start of her campaign to win over not just my body but my heart and mind as well. Not, I confess, that I'd been at all reluctant to share my body with her. She became a regular guest in my house and my bed, and each visit had been a learning experience, everything from arrest protocols to investigative techniques to self-defense to surveillance, to extended explorations of a more sensual nature.

Yeah, she was using every tool at her disposal to recruit me for the force, never mind that I was only fourteen. She wasn't obsessed, was filled with love, and gave me room to spread my wings. At the time the force hadn't seemed a bad idea -- still didn't. It has a romantic appeal, but as I grew I saw other opportunities, other places to go.

And right now, that place was the community art association's studio for a modeling assignment. Strapping on my helmet I planted my naked ass on Old Bessie's twice replaced seat, and off I pedaled.

Oh, I'd rejected those lambskin covers as unhygienic, given my tendency to ride au natural. I also remembered too well the scratchiness of my early makeshift wrappings of the seat with black plastic electrician's tape. New seats didn't cost that much, though they were getting harder to find, given Old Bessie's age.

I can hear people asking why I don't replace the entire old three-speed instead of just the seat. Replace Old Bessie? I'd rather replace my right arm! You're talking infidelity, betrayal! Abandonment! If I did that her heart and soul, her very bones and sinews, would be consigned to the scrap-heap, chopped up, masticated, and then sent off to -- I don't know, maybe China -- to return as old tin cans or railroad track or something! How ignominious!

It had been love at first sight at that police auction. The moment I saw Bessie she called out to me to be rescued from a dire fate in the landfill -- this was before the "reduce, recycle, reuse" mantra of today. I knew she was my ticket to freedom, expanding my horizons beyond the bounds of my back yard, my home block. She became the wings beneath my feet.

Old Bessie and I have been through so much together since -- rides with Missy, rides with Greg, good times and bad, in sun and rain. She'd been stolen once -- my fault, I forgot to take a moment to lock her -- and it took me a month to track her down. I was grounded for a week for what I did to the thief -- the price of a deviated septum -- but it was worth it. I got Bessie back.

The first flat tire -- I was ten years old and I'd only had Bessie a month -- I'd walked her home, crying so hard I tripped over curbs and banged my shins on the pedals, refusing all offers of help. She was my responsibility, my friend, and she was hurt! After Mom dried my tears, picked the gravel out of my knee and iced my bruises I replaced the tire, with the help of a book from the library and Carl's muscle on one nut. It was a back tire, so, what with the chain and the gears and all that, I learned how to fix and maintain Bessie -- oil the chain, adjust the gears and brakes, tension the spokes. As I grew I raised the seat and handlebars, and it was a good thing I stopped growing when I did. I was about to run out of growing room.

Tending her had given me the confidence to tackle other mechanical challenges, instead of just standing around wringing my hands waiting for my brother or someone else to repair what's broken.

I have a driver's license, but no car. Old Bessie keeps me in better shape. I'm a fixture as I pedal around town. How many naked six-foot-plus blondes do you see sitting up real straight on an old three-speed, knees high, legs pumping? The risk of road-rash makes me very careful. I keep an eye on my mirrors.

I get honks and waves, an occasional whistle or whoop, but it's been years since someone deliberately tried to run me off the road. Accidentally is another issue. On the upgrades when I come up off the seat to put my weight on the pedals I moon overtakers, resulting in distracted driving. When I coast down a hill I spread my legs to feel the air on my naked pussy, or crank the pedals backwards just to stretch unused muscles. When I pedal through the shopping district's brick-paved plaza I angle my pelvis so the vibrations through the horn of the saddle buzz my clit. Even if I'm not headed downtown I may deliberately go that way just to come that way, if you get my drift.

The art studio is upstairs in one of the old downtown buildings. I arrived at the bike rack deliciously on edge, you might say. When I swung off Bessie I got a chorus of hoots from the bird watchers manning the benches under the plaza's ficus tree.

"Ignore the old farts, Dee." The elderly lady pausing in her morning walk snorted. "They're like my dog chasing a car. Even if they could catch you they wouldn't know what to do with you."

"Oh I don't mind, Mrs. Finneran. I know why they carry those binoculars. I'll be posing for them in a few minutes." I waved at the second-floor studio's big picture window.

She cackled merrily, resuming her power-walk, arms pumping vigorously. I couldn't help giggling as she gave the geezers the finger as she passed them, rolling her hips teasingly, receiving hoots and wisecracks in return. After locking Old Bessie to the rack and grabbing my swim bag I took the stairs my usual two at a time, my helmet bobbling on my head, looking forward to the rest of my morning.

You might think modeling for an artist would be the most boring job in the universe but it depends on the artist. With Henry it is rarely dull -- after all, he is a blind sculptor and I'm usually nude. But even allowing for his tactile methods I had plenty of time to think and for some reason today I had a lot to think about. Once he had me the way he wanted me -- think Goya's The Naked Maja, one of Henry's favorites for a beginning class -- I found my mind going back to the SACNISP meeting the Monday after Maria had "adjusted my attitude." Certainly it had been an interesting meeting -- tumultuous, you might say.

Maria had suggested I find out if others had gotten the same KTP calls, so I opened the meeting by telling them about mine and asking if anyone else had gotten them.

Metaphorically speaking, all the popcorn in the pan went off at once.

Well, all but one kernel -- two if you count me. Mrs. Devers merely stiffened -- even her tits.

Especially her tits.

Oh God those tits!

We were in Program Uniform, of course, and Mrs. Devers continues to put her luscious body on the line right along with the rest of us. Her mouth snapped shut, her lips tightening into a thin, hard line, her eyes like icicles.

Maybe I should have talked with her about it when it had first happened.

Ah me.

And it would've been better if I'd asked for a show of hands or something, 'cause everyone was talking at once. I was able to filter the cross-chatter down to, about evenly, "You, too?" and "Oh thank God, I thought I was the only one!"

I almost broke the gavel trying to bring the meeting back to order.

"And just when were you planning on letting me know this was going on?" Mrs. Devers's even tone had the chill of a glacier. I got that sinking feeling in my gut, knowing that once again I'd fucked up -- a sin of omission but a sin nonetheless.

Well, too late now. I was about to open my mouth for some snippy comment like "I just did" when the rest of the committee saved me from that folly, reacting as if she'd asked them, triggering another outburst, this time the gist of it being "I just thought it was some nut" mixed with "I didn't want to worry anyone."

Nice to know we're so inventive with our excuses -- NOT.

If this kept up either the gavel or I would have a splitting headache before the end of the meeting.

"One at a time, please!" I insisted when they'd again quieted down. To delay my head-to-head with Mrs. Devers I decided to find out who, among them, had gotten calls and what they said -- not that I had any doubt it was everyone and the message was the same. Protocol suggested I start with my second in command. "Heather?"

A touch broke into my reverie. I managed to hold my pose, even as Henry guided the hands of his students over my skin. Fingers traced my thigh, and Henry encouraged them to probe the muscles and tendons while he talked with them. I'm not as voluptuous as Goya's model, but he says my physical conditioning and willingness to -- uhm -- expose my assets makes me a better anatomy model.

At least as The Naked Maja I was relaxed, reclining. Once, when he'd heard I was into archery -- part of my PTSD therapy (thank you Ms. Andrews) -- Henry had decided I should be the Goddess of the Hunt.

Well, after all, my given name is Diane.

Whatever, the first day of that project I'd spent an hour posing with my bow and arrow -- my personal recurve bow, strung and ready, a real arrow nocked to the string. He insisted I hold it fully drawn to bring out the muscles of my back and shoulders. He's a demon for accuracy and wanted my technique to be correct, right down to using only the tips of two fingers to hold the string. Ouch! Even with breaks every five minutes I was so sore I was ready to put an arrow in his butt by the time he was done.

As for that ridiculous flight of fancy immortalized by Augustus Saint-Gaudens in his "Diana Goddess of the Hunt" statue, artistic license is one thing, but she couldn't hit the broadside of a barn from the inside with that pose.

Balancing on one foot? Puh-leeze! With my usual lack of modesty I claim I look just as good -- better, even -- when I do it right! The perfect posture, feet spread shoulder width, weight evenly balanced, spine straight, shoulders back, head up, bow anchored solidly in my left palm. You can draw a straight line from the elbow of my drawing arm right through my fingers down the length of the arrow. The thumb of my drawing hand is lightly at the corner of my mouth, the anchor point, the bow itself is slightly angled so the bowstring carves a groove right in the center of the tip of my nose. My eyes are fixed on the target. Breathe in, breathe out -- release!

The only concession I'd insisted on was using a safety arrow with a padded head, safer, even than to the blunt arrow usually used for target shooting. That minimized penetrating power if anything slipped. As it was one slip and even it could have done serious damage, so I was real careful which way I was aiming. I managed not to let it slip, and holding the pose did wonders for my conditioning.

That had been the first of a number of private sessions with my bow. Once he'd even had me shoot at the archery club range -- nude, of course while he "watched" the play of all of my muscles -- and I do mean all! -- with his fingertips. The display of my charms had resulted in some shots by other archers going seriously astray, endangering windows, wildlife and the occasional passing plane.

I never knew if anything had come of the project, but that wasn't unusual. For all I knew I was now a bronze statue in some millionaire's wet dream.

Ooo! They were working real close to my bare pussy! One guy in particular seemed especially interested in my anatomy down there, not that I objected.

Arousing? Of course it was arousing! It made up for the crummy pay. One of the things I loved about posing for Henry was the touching. It made me feel so alive to have hands on me. His free classes were always for special needs people, limited to no more than six students, usually but not strictly visually impaired. He taught autistics, Down syndrome, ADHD, cerebral palsy, you name it. He put them in touch -- literally -- with a world they otherwise had trouble relating to. His seeing-eye dog Aphrodite even had therapy dog attributes that let her calm the troubled ones.

I can also tell you from experience that her cold nose really gets your attention when you're posing naked and start to sag.

The class went back to their clay and my mind began to drift again.

Why did I keep looking back to my freshman year? Here I was, nearing commencement, and I was wandering around in the past like those old farts under the ficus tree. "Commencement" meant beginning, after all! My life was just starting.

I should know better than to pose such a question in my head. Up popped The Stick, of course. As I'd matured she'd been less intrusive, but after months of comparative silence she just had to get in her two cents worth.

Because, she said, you need to remember what you've learned -- all of it, not just your book-learning. Think of it as the review before you face the final exam that's the rest of your life.

Gee, thanks a bunch! I told her.

De nada, she responded courteously. Sarcasm is wasted on her, and even my inner voice has picked up some Spanish from Maria.

Okay, so where was I before I was interrupted by the touchy-feelies? Oh yeah. SACNISP meeting, polling the committee for KTP call data.

As was her way, Mrs. Devers gave me The Look that said "we'll talk," but didn't stop me from running the meeting. As we went around the table the story was pretty much the same. The only difference between them and me was they'd all had their own phones for years -- either a cell or private landline in their bedrooms. At least they didn't have to worry about their parents picking up on an embarrassing call or voice-mail.

Too bad. If any parent had caught a KTP call the shit would have hit the fan a lot sooner and Mrs. Devers wouldn't be deciding between the gallows or the guillotine for me.

I'd gotten the first KTP call the same day I'd been railroaded into chairing this zoo, so whoever it was had a good intelligence operation in the school. Eventually everyone got them. In every case, three or four times a week, the message was "kill the program." Sometimes it was a text to their smart phone, or an anonymous voice mail, occasionally they'd pick up to hear it live. It wasn't always the same voice but it was always the exact same message.

Those dorks needed a new script.

Getting our phone numbers was easy. None of us made an effort to keep them a secret. We're teenagers. Phones are practically an extension of our ears, except for me. I'd learned early that our home line had to be kept free for Mom's work. As for the cell, Elaine may have given it to me but Mom had bluntly told me Elaine's money was not mine to spend. The bills came out of my allowance. Since I paid even for incoming calls I'd been very careful about sharing my number.

"They're blocking caller ID," Matt Mozilla observed. Being the last one around the table he'd put his phone on speaker and played the latest message he'd gotten, which was just more of the same-old same-old. "So we can't trace 'em back that way."

"What about star-57? Has anyone used that?" Maria had brought that up. Punching 57 sends a signal to the phone company so the calling number is recorded. And you can use -77 to block that calling number. I was too embarrassed to admit I hadn't known about it.

Matt shrugged. "I didn't see any reason. The calls seem harmless enough."

One look told me at least they'd known about it, but no one else had used it, either.

Dorks!

"Anyone recognize the voice?" I asked.

Hands went up, but it turned out it was a voice they'd only heard on their own calls, so that didn't get us anywhere. I did know who at least one caller was, so I gave them a very abridged version of my weekend with Maria, edited down to "I've got a friend with the police department who's identified one caller. She's now using my phone records -- my mom's phone records, that is -- to attach names to others."

"The police? You think it's that serious?" Mrs. Devers asked.

"They do. I mean Maria -- I mean, Detective Sanchez -- thinks it is that serious. One caller is the same guy that popped up at the board meeting -- I recognized his voice that night, but didn't get a look at him. ID-ing him was kind of a fluke. Detective Sanchez accidentally tripped over him while she was dealing with another problem and she wondered why he had my phone number."

"What was he caught for?" Mrs. Devers asked.

I dodged that one. "Just a traffic stop. Nothing to do with The Program."

"Who is it? Anyone we know?" Heather asked.

I shrugged. "Maria -- Det ... Oh hell, Maria, we're on a first-name basis -- she doesn't want me to say, it being an ongoing investigation and all that. He's a parent, not a student, fairly new in town, has some issues. That's all I can say at this point. Oh, his daughter's in middle school and he's kinda over-protective. That may be his motive."

I took a deep breath. "Thing is, he's obviously not the only one. Just from the voices we know there's at least three other callers, maybe more. I suppose we can start using that star-57 thingy now, but Detective Sanchez feels it would be helpful if we can use phone records to pin them down, find out if there's a common link. To do that she'll need your permission..."

"Your parents' permission," Mrs. Devers interrupted, "given that you're all still minors. Except maybe you, Heather, and you Matt."

"Your parents' permission," I corrected, "to access your phone records."

Cue the popcorn, which I let run for a minute before once again working the table over with the gavel, saving my voice but not my wrist.

"I know. That means you'll have to tell your parents what's been going on. You're on your own there."

"If there's a problem have them call me," Mrs. Devers volunteered.

Rumblings of discontent mixed with moans and sighs. Parents get so cranky over stuff like this! I'd already endured the "we only want to keep you safe" lecture myself, in stereo-surround sound from both of my Moms and Maria.

I did my best to calm my committee's concerns. "I know you don't want your privacy invaded. Detective Sanchez will only be looking for numbers that fit the pattern -- three or four incoming calls a week at the right time each day, and putting names to them. The rest she'll ignore. Mine always come after school, when my Mom isn't home but I sometimes am. Whoever it is they know my schedule.

"After the first few I was paranoid enough to keep a diary of the calls -- date and time. If any of you've done the same we could use that list. If you haven't, if you could start doing it now, or use star-57, it will help Maria, and you. Unless the pattern changes, it'll only take a week to give us a starting point and those'll be the only numbers she'll back-track, so your secrets are safe from her. I'd trust her with my life."

Come to think of it, I already had.

"What about blocking the numbers with *77? Oh, wait, if we do that they'd know we're on to 'em and just switch phones." Sometimes Mike's mouth gets ahead of his brain.

"Duh!" someone said, which brought the gavel down sharply, along with a glare from the chair, namely me. I'd learned that nothing could kill a discussion faster than a crack like that and I'd been working on my sharp glare for just those types of put-downs.

"Why is Maria -- uh -- Detective Sanchez so worried?" Heather asked. She was the only other one on the committee who'd tangled with The Worm and who knew Maria, though not as well as I did.

"Well, first of all, now that I know you've gotten them, too, it's obviously a coordinated attack, which she already suspected," I explained. "Then she also pointed out to me that recently there've been more -- and more venomous -- 'kill the program' letters in the paper. She wants to compare the names she gets from the phone calls to the signatures on the letters for a connection. And I bet you've probably noticed the pickets are getting noisier, too. So far the calls can only be considered harassment, but interfering with The Program is a felony."

Mrs. Devers nodded, and tried to be reassuring. "There's always been opposition to The Program and someone is stirring things up, but I don't think it's personal."

Yet, The Stick helpfully added.

"The forces of evil are gathering," Mike intoned ominously, like something out of Lord of the Rings. "What are we going to do, Frodo?"

Frodo? No one's every going to mistake me for a Hobbit!