Fleeing the Past . Christopher LaGrone
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and Layne stared at one spot on the wall in a comfortable state of shock. After several minutes the silence was interrupted when Bull opened the door to the conference room and motioned for Layne to return. He sat back down at the table, expecting bad news. It had been so long since he had experienced success that he felt a sense of fulfillment by simply putting forth a good effort. He told himself that he had done the best he could while he waited for the rejection.
“We decided to pass you. Congratulations. Your investigator will be in contact with you. Don’t talk to the others on your way out,” Bull said.
“Thank you,” Layne said in disbelief.
* * * *
FABIOLA SAT UP STRAIGHT IN HER desk chair as Edward put his badge away into his back pocket and sat in the chair facing her desk. She had straightened up her office as best she could in preparation for his arrival. Her hands were grasping one another underneath the drawer of her desk, below Edward’s view. Edward had been placing business cards on the doors of all of her neighbors in the apartment complex and all over Layne’s parents’ neighborhood. The cards bore the Homeland Security logo in the corner and requested that the recipient “contact Agent Edward Herrera regarding a matter of National Security.” Many of her neighbors in the apartments were unlawful and wouldn’t answer the door when he knocked, nor would they call the number on the business card.
Fabiola tried not to appear uneasy while Edward thumbed the combination to unlock his briefcase. He couldn’t help glancing at her more than once while he opened his briefcase. She had long sandy blonde hair and a European face, completely opposite of what he had expected. She wore an azure shirtwaist dress, and pearl stud earrings. She was interesting to look at—although she looked Caucasian, she exuded a foreign appearance that would be hard for him to describe.
Once Edward situated himself, he focused on Fabiola’s blue eyes. “You understand that Layne is applying for a security clearance in order to be accepted into the Border Patrol Academy?”
“Yes, I understand,” Fabiola said; her hands gripped one another tighter as she answered.
“I’ve had trouble getting in contact with the people who live in your vicinity,” Edward said with slight frustration.
“I’m sorry about that. But you have to understand, the people who live here probably think you’re a police officer, and they’re afraid to talk to you,” Fabiola explained, her voice sounded unnerved despite her efforts to appear relaxed.
“How long have you known Layne?” Edward said to her, his eyes trained patiently on his paperwork now.
“I have known him for about a year,” Fabiola said.
Her accent was pleasing to hear and it charmed Edward; he grinned when she spoke.
“How did you meet him?” Edward asked.
“His friend Kurt introduced me to him. I worked at Purgatory Ski resort with Kurt before my company transferred me here. They own these apartments,” Fabiola said, trying to smile.
Edward was becoming increasingly intrigued by the combination of her appearance and her accent as they interacted. “Did you go to college in Argentina?” he asked politely.
“Yes, I went to the National University of Rosario.” Fabiola was holding her breath a little after each response.
“What did you study?”
“Medicine, then I changed to Business after the second year.”
“Why didn’t you continue to study medicine?”
“My dad is a doctor and I felt obligated to study medicine. But after a few years of it, I decided it wasn’t for me.” Fabiola looked at her hands while she answered.
“I see, and you have an H1-B visa here in the U.S.?” Edward redirected, realizing that he had brought up a sore subject.
“Yes, I do,” Fabiola said. She tried to remember what she had rehearsed, but her mind had gone blank.
Edward searched for his next question within his paperwork while Fabiola’s palms began to sweat against one another. She was feeling the same way she had when she dealt with U.S. Customs Agents in Argentina while applying for the visa. She shuddered to remember; the Customs Agents were notoriously malevolent and ruthless, and the white female agents especially mean. They spoke fluent Spanish but chose to speak English to the Argentinian visa applicants, to further torment them.
“How long did it take you to get the visa?” Edward asked.
“My company put me into a lottery to get it. It took two years for them to choose my name,” Fabiola said.
Edward was silent again, appearing lost while trying to find his place. Fabiola wondered if she appeared nervous to him. Her documents were up to date, but she couldn’t overcome the fear of interaction with a U.S. Federal Agent, no matter how politely Edward behaved. He wasn’t a Customs Agent; nevertheless, he was not to be toyed with. His attitude was almost leisurely, but perhaps he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Edward smiled with slight embarrassment as he fumbled through papers and she saw flashbacks of the U.S. Embassy in Rosario where the interview for her visa was conducted. American tourists who had lost their passport and all of their money laid helpless on the sidewalk while the embassy personnel ignored them as they drove past on their way in and out of the gated parking lot. Their apathy toward humanity in general was disturbing, and she cringed while remembering.
“Do you like it here?” Edward asked bashfully.
“Yes, I like Colorado. I miss home, though.”
“What do you and Layne do in your spare time?” Edward became aware of the overly friendly impression he was making. He corrected it and his cordial demeanor diminished a little bit.
“We visit my friends in Aurora. I met a girl from Argentina when I got here,” Fabiola said with a smile.
“How did you meet her?” Edward asked curiously.
Fabiola couldn’t determine if he was being benevolently inquisitive or if he was trying to delude her.
“I was in line to pay at Target and I heard her talking to the cashier. I recognized her accent when she spoke English. Then I found her in the parking lot after I paid,” Fabiola said. She enjoyed remembering the first time she met Marcela despite the circumstances under which she was remembering.
“Wow, what a lucky coincidence; I’ve never met anyone from Argentina,” Edward said, his mouth hung open slightly.
“Yes, it was,” Fabiola giggled.
“What else do you and Layne do in your spare time?”
“We go to the mountains sometimes; we went to Estes Park a few weeks ago. We go to the movies a lot—Layne loves movies. We only go to the movies that he wants to see though,” Fabiola said, laughing a little.
“I bet you watch the World Cup; Argentina is usually pretty good.” Edward said.
“I watch every game I can; I wear my Argentina jersey every time they play.”
Edward glanced at the miniature blue and white flag hoisted in a coffee cup on her desk. “Does Layne like to watch soccer with you?”
Fabiola’s smile straightened. “No, he doesn’t like soccer; he doesn’t really watch sports at all unless it’s the Baseball Series or the Super Bowl.”
“Do you visit his parents very often?” Edward’s pen awaited an answer, a hint to what questions were relevant.
“No, not really. I have only been to see his parents twice, once on Thanksgiving last year,” Fabiola said. She looked unsure about the meaning of her answer.
“Does he help pay bills?”
“There are really no bills to pay. I don’t have to pay rent; it’s one of the benefits of my job. But he usually pays for me when we go out to eat or to movies,