Lie Like a Villain

Chapter 8 || Mr. Foster

Adrian Foster sat in a greasy, hole-in-the-wall restaurant that someone overestimating their own cleverness had named Pankake House. With a 'k'. A moue took his lips as one gloved finger traced a coffee mug printed with the unfortunate spelling.

Oh well. He didn't descend into the field for vacation. Mundane as it may seem, Mr. Foster had learned long ago that places like this were where all the intelligence trickled through. When people wanted to hide, they went where they thought no one would be looking. When locals wanted to gossip, they went to establishments owned by other locals. The convergence of the two created a hub that many agents overlooked. They preferred to crawl the web and sift databases.

Data, of course, had its time and place. But data wasn't a story. It wasn't the living, beating heart of the mission. And it certainly wasn't how opportunity landed in one's lap.

Mr. Foster sipped his coffee and listened to the chatter. A rotund woman with a rag slung over her shoulder leaned against the cook's window to ask him about his weekend plans. Her attempts at flirting were going so unnoticed, Mr. Foster almost thought to flirt with her himself, if only to provoke her target to jealousy. But he had no desire to be noticed, and that would certainly cause a stir with the locals. No, as is, he was just another old man eating toast and reading the newspaper. There was little difference between him and the pair playing checkers in the corner, except perhaps a couple decades.

Eventually, the woman gave up and remembered her customer, bustling over to fill up his mug. "Need anything else, hon?"

"No, no," he said easily. Then, as if he'd just remembered, he put down his newspaper. "Actually, you haven't had a young man pass through here, have you? Thirteenish, unruly brown hair, scrawny as a scarecrow." His voice was warm with amused affection, and it teased a smile out of the woman. "He's my nephew. I was supposed to pick him up here, but my sister and I seem to have gotten our wires crossed..." He trailed off ruefully, brows raised in hope.

"Well, no, I can't say I—" Her mouth twisted to the side, and she leaned against a chair. A finger tapped her lips. "Now, wait. Now, there was that kid... Jerry!" she called to the cook through the window. "Jerry, you remember the kid who wandered in here the other day? You said you comped his meal?"

"Huh?" Jerry said, leaned over his griddle.

The woman heaved a sigh and proceeded to pester details out of him. It sounded like the courier boy that Mr. Foster had lost came through here two or three days ago, penniless, but had made himself scarce when Jerry called the police to check on him. Jerry and the server didn't sound too concerned; it wasn't anything to do with them really after all, and they had called the authorities.

Mr. Foster's lip twitched as he held back an ugly sneer. It was people like this who made what he did necessary. Normal, careless, sweetly callous people.

Jerry, unfortunately, didn't know much. The courier boy had been here, that was all. At least the trail was warm. But there wasn't enough information to know whether the boy had taken the message to D.C. and just missed his pickup location, gotten cold feet and run for fear he'd be punished, or just defected entirely.

Mr. Foster sighed and rubbed his gloved hands together, trying to warm the one that was always cold. The bell over the door jingled, and the server forgot Foster to nab menus for the newcomers. He dug out a generous tip and made to leave, but a stray glance froze him in his seat.

A walking memory strolled right past Foster's table. The sharp angles of his face, the high, thoughtful forehead creased in thought, even the gait was the same, a walk somewhere between purposeful and watchful, as if every step were planned out. His breath caught in his throat. Matthew Reeves. Or at least, what young Matthew had looked like twenty years ago. The nose was different—not smashed flat by the childhood bullies Mr. Foster had saved Matthew from. And the hair—that pretty gold color would have come from Miss Jessica. Mr. Foster slowly let out the breath he'd almost forgotten he was holding.