Page 2 of Snow Blind (The Technicians #14)

T he uneasiness of the events from the day before had killed Helen's appetite, even after a long day of being on the road, leaving a sad faced Mustang home alone, and arriving at a very cold home to find a Technician dragging a body. The next morning, however, her belly screamed for food, especially for hot cereal like a bowl of parmesan grits with scrambled cheesy eggs. To wash it down with a cup of hot coffee would be amazing, which fueled her into action to shower and dress. With her teeth freshly brushed, body cleanly scrubbed, and legs properly coated in her favorite lotion, she stepped from the bedroom, almost wanting to check on the partially comatose resident across the hall, but this wasn't her circus, and that man wasn't her clown. Instead, she made her way to the kitchen.

Helen walked down the narrow hallway, coming to the space where the living room was on the left and the kitchen and dining on the right. However, the air felt different. Instinct made her reach for the knives in both of her sweater pockets, holding them, prepared to throw at anything big coming her way. Two hours ago, she’d heard Passion Fruit's truck crank up, along with the heavy paws of Candy the Cane Corso leaving the home. She hadn't heard them return.

Something was off.

Something was different.

Someone sat in the corner in the dark.

A pair of black boots were there, attached to a pair of legs, which weren't there when she went to bed. Helen wasn't sure if this was Passion Fruit's man, her father, brother, or anyone else. She would err on the side of caution, considering the person was in the home, but she wasn't taking any fucking chances.

"I am pretty deadly with these knives," she said in a voice much calmer than she felt. "I may not land both center mass of your chest, but one will get you. Come on into the light."

The boots moved. The legs attached to the boots brought the body of a man into the light of the kitchen. Helen's eyes started at the feet, working their way up the stranger's body. The boots were very similar to the ones her cousin Cherry wore when she was out and about doing her former job as a Technician. The black cargo pants appeared custom made, with lots of pockets in different shapes that showed the imprint of knives and what looked like ninja stars. She made a mental note of the pants, definitely wanting to know where he'd gotten them made.

The shirt, in an inky black dark cotton, had three buttons open at the neck. She could see the marking of a tattoo as well as, what she wasn't sure...possibly scales. Dark skin, kissed by a life lived in the sun, covered the man’s throat. A scraggly beard barely covered the strong chin. The lips she almost recognized, and the nose as well, but it was the eyes. A stare which nearly bore through her met the steely gaze when she made it to his eyes.

"Oh, okay," Helen said, putting the knives onto the kitchen table. She wasn't sure what fresh hell had brought this man to her doorstep, but she wasn't dealing with him without having coffee first.

"Do you know who I am?" the man asked in a heavily accented, deep baritone voice.

"Yeah, you're the Bushmaster's father...the Lancelot," Helen said, walking to the stove to start the kettle for coffee.

"The Fer de Lance," the man corrected.

"I knew it had a lance in there somewhere. Sorry, I need coffee," she said. "I also need breakfast. Are you hungry? Can you eat a bit?"

"Excuse me? Do you know why I am here?" he asked, perplexed by the woman who didn't seem surprised to see him, nor was she afraid. Perhaps he had the wrong one.

"I figured you came all this way for a conversation or for clarification," Helen said, "I am not doing either without food or my coffee. I guess, technically it’s your coffee. I seem to have developed an addiction to those dark roasted beans."

He scowled at her, uncertain if the woman was well. "Are you on the medication ?"

"No, Sir, Senor, Mr. Fer de Lance, the last year of my life has been, well, let's just say, nothing much surprises me anymore," she told him. "Please, have a seat. Standing there lurking is not going to get you either clarification or a conversation that will make much sense."

She went about starting breakfast with the Drug Czar for an entire country sitting at the table as if it occurred every day. She started the kettle and took a Chemex coffee carafe from the counter and added the special filter, which she dampened with a bit of water from the kettle. The man sat at the table watching her, saying nothing.

Helen grabbed a pot from the wall of hanging cookware, added water, and placed it on the stove. She took a bowl of fresh eggs from the counter to the table where he sat. She held her hands up as if she were being patted down, using one hand to open the kitchen cabinet to remove a mixing bowl showing him, while moving slowly, she intended no harm. Helen repeated this action, taking a ceramic container from the countertop and bringing it to the table. She turned the container to face him and slowly opened the top to reveal the contents of ground corn. Again, her hands in the air, she stood facing him, standing on one side of the kitchen drawer, opening it slowly and reaching one hand in to remove the measuring cups. She removed a scoop of the grits from the ceramic container and took them to the pot on the stove.

Helen moved to the fridge and took out wedges of cheddar and parmesan, butter, and cream. She added a bit of cream to the pot of grits, broke off crumbles of the parmesan, and tossed them into the pot. She stirred with a wooden spoon.

Suddenly, she turned to face the man. Her nose was crinkled as if she suddenly smelled something foul. "Hey, wait a minute. That chair wasn't in that corner. You moved it there to be all dramatic, didn't you?"

The man's eyebrows arched as she pointed the grits covered wooden spoon at him. "You are unwell, aren't you?"

"No, that chair wasn't there before. You moved it," Helen said shaking the spoon at him. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you."

She cracked four eggs, then looked at the back door. She cracked two more. Helen looked down the hall, not knowing if the guest would be able to hold down food, and for good measure, cracked two more.

The Fer de Lance also looked toward the hallway as well. "Your handiwork?"

"If I have to do a job, I finish it," she said softly. "Not sure what that's about, plus it's not my house. I, like you, am a guest."

"Hmmm," he replied.

The kettle began to sing as he watched her remove a bag of coffee from Las Tierras. He would ask later how she came to know his brand, among other questions which compounded each minute he spent in her presence. Admiration came briefly as he watched her add two scoops of the coffee. She looked up at him, then added a smidgen of a scoop more. Slowly, she began to pour the water over the grounds, allowing them to bloom. This was the way he made coffee in his home as well.

She whisked the eggs, added cream, and grated a bit of cheese into the bowl. On the stove, a skillet that had warmed enough to melt butter became home to the eggs. Helen stirred the grits, scrambled the eggs, and came to the table to pour more water over the coffee.

"If you want bacon, it's in the fridge," she said to the man.

To her surprise, he rose to retrieve the meat. A bacon rack appeared on the table as the man pulled off six strips and placed them on the microwave safe cooker. Helen stuck it in the microwave and hit four. Once more, she poured water over the coffee as it slowly drained a black emotional equalizer into the carafe. The eggs, now softly scrambled, were ladled onto two plates, alongside bread which popped from the toaster. The microwave dinged, announcing the completion of the meat, and she removed the dish and placed the bacon on a paper towel to blot the grease.

Helen brought it to the table along with two coffee mugs. She removed the filter with the grounds and placed it a small bowl for use later in composting. The grits, stirred and ladled out on the plate next to the eggs, came to the table. She poured coffee for both of them and took a seat. With her head bowed, she prayed over the meal, then added sugar to her coffee with a dab of cream. Slowly, she sipped, sighing in delight.

"This is surreal," she said. "I would rank this as the equivalent of having a glass of wine with a Gallo brother. Your coffee is amazing, but I'm sure you know that."

He said nothing as he added a bit of cream to his own coffee and sipped. "You are not what I was expecting."

"I get that often," she replied. "What were you expecting, if I might ask?"

Looking over the rim of the mug he said to Helen, "A temptress."

Her eyebrows arched. "And who would I have tempted...oh. Is he alright? Micah, is he okay, did something happen to him?"

"He's Micah," the Fer de Lance said.

"Alita, is she well? I know they were talking about colleges; did he decide on one?"

"He has not," the Fer de Lance said.

"Then what may I clarify for you, Senor?"

Honestly, he didn't know where to start. He didn't even know how to begin his reasoning for being in the U.S., let alone in some strange woman's home, seeking another strange woman, to gain...clarification for the changes in his son. He picked up a strip of bacon, surprised at his own hunger, and bit into it.

"The tablet," the Fer de Lance said. "He spent so much time watching the red dot on the tablet. Obsessed almost. Fixated."

"Red dot?"

"He was tracking the red dot," he said. "The red dot went from Ohio to Indiana. Each time the red dot stopped in Indiana, he became more agitated the longer the red dot stayed immobile. Then, when it moved again, he calmed down."

The realization that the red dot must be a device on her vehicle unnerved Helen. "Micah is tracking me? How and why?"

"You don't have an implanted transponder like the others," he told her. "He placed the tracker on your vehicle. I was informed that you were under his protection. I need clarification on what you've done to earn his loyalty."

"I cooked him some neck bones, collard greens, and corny bread," she said, pursing her lips.

The man's face was deadpan, making Helen burst into laughter, which was the wrong thing to do.

Anger coursed through him at the slip of a woman. "Are you laughing at my son?"

"No, I am laughing at this situation," Helen said. "My meeting him was a chance encounter as he made the delivery of supplies to The Lemon, a Technician in Ohio. I was there for training. A situation arose, he asked me to cover his back, I did, and he became... enamored."

"Enamored?"

"Yes, Sir, and he made his pitch for my affections," Helen said. "I will admit, on his third try, I was impressed."

"Third? He attempted to woo you more than once by the use of that word, I assume."

"Yes, the second bid for my affection he threatened to fight my man. Shirt off, bare knuckles, fight him for me," Helen said to a disapproving father's face.

"And the third?"

She smiled at him. "I will confess, that one, I took a pause. Let me make sure I get the wording correct. Yes, he gave me two options, one he could make the sweet love to me on the white sandy beaches in Mexico, or he would feed me figs and decadent cheeses on 1800 thread count sheets in California wine country."

The Fer de Lance's eyes grew wide. Helen shared her feelings on such an offer from a person barely an adult. However, the offer was made by his son, which in itself, had a shelf life of its own.

"I also ruefully admit, I've never been to wine country or slept on 1800 thread count sheets, so I was like, hmmm," she said laughing aloud.

To her surprise, the man laughed too. The air settled between them. He still was unclear of how X equaled Y, but they were still talking.

The Fer de Lance asked, "You played with his affections?"

"No, I have a man where we share a home and life in Indiana," she said, pausing, allowing him to connect the red dots. When she was satisfied that he had, she began to pull together the answers he sought. "In your country and your world, he is a man. In my eyes, he is an 18-year-old fighting back, or trying to, against your rules. I am, in his mind, the manifestation of all the things you say he can't have."

The man squinted his eyes as if he were straining to hear her words. He knew what she meant, but for clarification, she would have to break it down to ensure he knew she understood his world. She also didn't need to have the trouble of a drug czar breathing down her neck.

"You set forth rules to protect him, which he explained since there were teenage girls in Lemon's home," she said, which made him sit up straighter in the chair. "Don't worry; he made it clear the girls in his eyes were children, and he didn't need a child in his bed. Micah also explained that your rules forbade him from indulging, even if he wanted to, because it was not your way."

The man leaned forward, "But he went for you?"

"He went for the idea of me," Helen said, "knowing I would refuse him, but he wanted fuel for whatever battle he's planning with you."

The Fer de Lance’s eyebrows went up, "You think he is planning a confrontation with me?"

"Every child has a confrontation with their father at 18. Didn't you?" she asked as she saw the quiver at the side of his lip. "My father is a mechanical engineer. He put money aside from each paycheck for my college education."

"Did you attend university?"

"Nope," she said, laughing. "My cousin Abigail joined the military. I waited until she finished her training and followed her around the world. We lived in Germany, Okinawa, a year in South Korea, and then back to the states in North Carolina. Her last stop was Indiana."

A new silence between them grew louder with each second. A conversation was had, but elucidation was still required. Helen eased into it. "What else is Micah doing other than tracking my movements that made you take time from your busy life to come see me?"

"He is the mopey ," the Fer de Lance reluctantly admitted. "I came to find the woman whom he said broke his heart. I needed to look into the eyes of the person who would take advantage of him."

"Sir, no one takes advantage of the Bushmaster," Helen said in his defense. "That young man is a powerhouse, smart, and sharp as a tack. You have taught him well to lean into his Asperger’s and use it in his favor, plus, a body would have to get past Alita. The Lemon is a chemistry professor who has written textbooks used at universities around the world, as well as where she teaches her students. Micah sat at her dinner table, discussing formulas, probabilities, and using wording I can't even spell. No one, I mean no one, takes advantage of him. He knows what he wants and goes after it. I simply represent the times he tried, but I would not yield."

When she said the word yield, his eyes showed a recognition. "No, not that dude. I understand he is friends with your eldest?"

"You know of the Technician they call The Yield ?"

"I've worked with him," she said.

He leaned forward, "What kind of Technician are you?"

"The worst kind," she replied, sipping her coffee, emptying the mug. "I am no seducer of men, nor women for that matter. I look harmless, which makes people trust me, but like the Fer de Lance, I strike without warning, and I am deadly."

He leaned forward. "I don't want to like you, but I do."

Helen asked, "Then, may we part as friendly, with no harm on my part to the Bushmaster’s heart or ambitions? Also, can you tell me where you got those pants?"

"Perhaps, but my concerns are for your ambitions," he said. "I tracked you to your home, missing you by minutes. Your man is a large guy, but there are others watching you as well, asking what I asked. What kind of Technician are you?"

"Have you led them to me?"

"No, seeing me will make them beg off for now," he said. "However, they will come, especially considering the work you did in Wisconsin."

"I did more work in Ohio and shut down a small one in Indiana," she said.

"Move with caution," he warned. "They don't know who you are but are trying to not only find out but also find you."

"Let them fuckers come. I will be ready," Helen said.

"Never invite danger into your life," he cautioned.

The sound of the truck arriving was his cue to leave. He stood up, his eyes on the door. From the other room, he retrieved his coat and hat and returned to the table to take a seat. The back door opened, bringing in Candy, who spotted him and growled.

The Fer de Lance clicked his tongue twice and lowered his tone, praising the pretty girl. He called her over, " Ven aca mi bonita ."

To both the surprise of Passion Fruit, who stood frozen in the doorway, and to Helen, the dog obeyed. He rubbed Candy between the ears, provided her with a handful of cheesy eggs and stood. His coat he put on in a flourish, capped off with the Bolero on his head.

"I must depart. Thank you for the meal, the conversation, and the clarification," he said, nodding his head to Passion Fruit.

"Anytime," Helen replied.

And with that, he was gone along with the coffee mug that was the only thing, outside of the two strips of bacon he had touched with ungloved hands.

Passion Fruit looked at Helen. "I could swear that man looked like Eduardo Delgado, the Fer de Lance."

"Yeah, looks can be deceiving," Helen said, trying to wrap her mind around the direction her life was taking. He’d shown up, looking for her, not as a Drug Czar, but as a concerned father. She respected that, considering it was Micah. Then a thought hit her. She hadn't spoken to her own father in the past month. A mental note was added to her list to call him later. "I made breakfast."

"Helen, I do hope you don't plan to have guests in my home," Passion Fruit said.

"I didn't plan it; that man simply goes wherever the fuck he wants," she said, smiling. "You want some coffee?"