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Frank’s entrance.
    He took a few seconds to admire her form. She had deep red hair that hung in a straight ponytail to the middle of her back. She wore a long, white lab coat, and Frank could see the bottoms of camouflage pants tucked into black combat boots under the hems.
    “Subject number three,” she said without turning around.
    “Excuse me?” Frank asked, surprised into speaking in a higher voice than usual.
    The woman gave a little sigh. “Mortimer, am I right?”
    “That’s right, Miss...?”
    “Doctor. Ryan. Shall we get to it?” she said as she turned around.
    Frank’s jaw dropped slightly as she did. She was quite striking, with strong features that aligned perfectly under her glasses. Green eyes shone out at him from under the lenses. Frank admired the swell of her breasts even under the bulky clothes, and he noted the Project pin with its signature cross and circle, pinned over a name badge: “ Dr. Sylvia Rya n . ”
    Frank stepped into the elevator after her, catching the scent of shampoo and clean skin. She used something with peaches on the label, he was sure. He closed his eyes and inhaled the smell, and when he opened them Ryan was standing against the back wall of the car with a bored look on her face.
    Frank grinned and leaned toward her, one hand covering the button to descend. “Going down, Sylvia?”
    She looked him in the eye, showing no sign of discomfort or fear. “Cut the shit, Mortimer. We’re already off schedule. If you’re done reading my tits, let’s get down to the staging area.”
    Frank’s face reddened, the grin twisting into a petulant snarl. “How dare yo u. Do you know who I—?”
    “Who you are? Yes, indee d, I do. Francis Randall Mortimer, a pissant child of an uppity family with more money and twisted genes than brains.” Frank looked like he’d been slapped. “Your name might have influence as far as the limits of that excuse for a city you call home,” she continued, “but down here, the Project is in charge. Which means I could boil your brain in piss if I felt like it, and your inbred little famiglia would have to smile and ask for seconds. Now push the fucking button.”
    Frank’s jaw dropped and hung uselessly. Even as the shock wore off and he dutifully pushed the button to go down, he filed away her name and face for possible retribution one day. The petty boy in him was incredulous that a woman—other than his mother—could speak to him in such a way without fear of reprisal. He ignored her for the rest of the journey down, which took some time. He instead concentrated on what was to come, and a calmness started to creep back over him. A snippet of an old dinner table prayer swam up to the surface of his mind from the murky depths of his memory: Bless me, Father, for these gifts I am about to receive.
    *****
    The car that had followed Frank’s van out of the city rolled down the same route Frank had taken, belching exhaust occasionally. It was a gray sedan, with a bumper sticker that said If You’re Reading This, You’re Too Close! As with Frank’s van, the driver had chosen a car that wouldn’t draw attention or stick in a memory.
    Said owner was Graham Turner, a self-made journalist according to him, a bottom-feeding paparazzo according to almost everybody else. His purview was the lifestyles of the rich, the famou s, and the mentionables, especially their bad habits and indiscretions. The most money was to be made in the latter and Turner had made his meager living through catching people of note with their pants down, figuratively or otherwise.
    His mission today was to catch a Mortimer doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. A picture of the son, Frank, doing something untoward could pay out massively. Turner didn’t care if it was through sale of the picture or blackmail, just as long as he got his payday.
    He was sure the squeaky-clean bachelor was up to no good, driving out here in the middle of nowhere in a buste d- up van