It was the sound of the engine that woke him. Nick Huxton was a light sleeper, and it wasn't uncommon for the slightest noise to disturb him. It was one of the reasons he had chosen the little brown-shingled house at the bottom of a dead-end street in the quiet community of Mennemet, Vermont to settle. Even here on this blissfully quiet road he often woke multiple times each night. And each time he had done so, it turned out to be nothing… at least since coming here—the house settling, the rush of the wind in the trees, the nameplate on his lamppost swinging, and any of a host of forest inhabitants belting out their amorous invitations or territorial proclamations. Not so tonight.

No, that was definitely an engine. He looked over at Barbara, beautiful even in her sleep-tangled shroud of auburn hair (though she might say otherwise). She still slept. Not surprising. When Barbara slept, she slept like she meant it. Carefully he pulled back the bedclothes and swung his legs over the side. His eyes were quite adjusted to the dim lighting given off by the pluglights around the house and so he easily found his slippers and put them on. Then headed to the window to peer outside.

His lamppost was switched off, but the moon was full, and he could see the Chrysler Crossfire Coupe quite clearly. It appeared to be black or some other dark color, and it was at the front of his yard, pulled over by the side of the circle at the end of Forest Way. In fact it was in his yard. The driver had parked it on his lawn behind his hedge, from the road it would not be visible. Standing next to it was a tall attractive woman with pageboy style blond hair wearing a dark turtleneck and a short skirt. She wore highish heels and appeared to be carrying a small black purse over her shoulder on a chain. She was alternating between taking short puffs on a cigarette in her right hand while glancing about warily and speaking into her left fist.

That's damned peculiar, Nick thought. Crouching down he cracked the window open a little to see if he could hear what she was saying.

“Uh huh. I understand that but—”

Now she was puffing again and shaking her head as if she didn't like what she was hearing. Nick strained his eyes… he couldn't see anyone else about… the coupe appeared to be unoccupied and in any case she wasn't looking at it, she was looking over it, up toward the top of the street. Who was she talking to? She held up her fist again.

“No, no, no. The package is in the mail. But I'm—”

She stopped again, and began tapping her foot frustratedly while she puffed on the cigarette. Briefly she held her hand up again and said “yeah” while shaking her head. Nick didn't recognize her or the car. Mennemet's population was under 2000 and gorgeous leggy blondes in sportcoupes were as common as hippopotami in these parts.

Up went her hand again. “Negative. I think I lost them in Montpelier, and now I'm in some little backwater west of Barton.” She paused. “Mennemet.” She paused again. “I said I think I lost them, I am not going back in, that could jeopardize everything. Where's the nearest eff oh other than Montpelier?”

Another car appeared at the top of the street, it was driving up Windset Trail and slowed to a stop at the entrance of Forest Way, but did not enter the street. She immediately dropped her cigarette, crushed it out with her foot, and crouched down beside the coupe, peering through the hedge.

“Bangor? Affirmative.”

The other car began driving again, and continued up Windset Trail to the right. She stood, slowly.

“I just saw them, they must have tailed me at least to where I got off the main road. I've got to lose this car, can you arrange a swap for me in Barton?” She nodded. “That'll do. See you there at oh two twenty. I'm going to ditch the peekaboo here.” She paused, then shook her head again. “If they reacquire me, do you want them to find it?” She nodded. “You can have an eff ay recover it later… there's a big hedge at the end of the road here. 14 Forest Way.” She glanced over at the lamppost. “Huxton. Roger that. Out.”

Apparently done talking to whoever, she put her purse on top of the coupe, and began hitching up her skirt revealing a pair of creamy white muscular thighs. What on Earth is she doing, Nick wondered. She hiked it higher still and didn't appear to be stopping. Baffled, Nick shook his head in wonderment.

“Nick? What time is it? Why is it so cold in here?” It was Barbara. Suddenly feeling guilty, he moved away from the window. She was rubbing her eyes and squinting at him. “Sorry hon, I heard a noise outside and opened the window to hear better. I'll shut it.” Barbara grunted and flopped back down in bed, rolling over and hugging the blankets closely to herself. He considered telling her about the strange woman, but nothing seemed to interest her as much as sleep when she was groggy. He looked back out the window. The Crossfire was slowly driving up the street with its lights off. When it reached the top, it paused for a moment, and then the lights came on and the car turned left on to Windset and out of sight. He glanced back at Barbara. She was fast asleep. I guess it can wait until morning, he thought.

---

Saturday morning was sunny but cold, and Nick woke to the sound of Barbara zipping up the jacket of her running suit. Her hair was up in a ponytail and she was wearing a headband and wristbands.

“Hey sweetheart,” she said as she headed for the bedroom door.

He yawned. “You going out?”

She gave him one of her famous what-do-you-think looks and then came over and kissed him on the cheek. “See you later!”

Nick grinned at her as she left the room and listened to her suit rustling as she walked down the hall and descended the steps. A moment later he heard the front door close. He stood and walked to the window to watch Barbara stretching on the driveway. Pushing fifty and as beautiful as ever she reminded him of one of those women you see on the cover of Runner's World. He never tired of looking at her. After a minute or two of various stretches, she set off down Forest Way at a trot, her breath visible as grayish puffs in the cool September air, her ponytail bobbing about as she ran. Nick sighed. She was lovely. Then he noticed the barely perceptible tire tracks on the grass by the front hedge and remembered the strange visitor from the night before.

She had sounded like a secret agent or spy to him. Hadn't she said something or other about leaving something under his hedge?

After hurriedly dressing, he stopped in the kitchen to grab a couple Ziploc baggies, just in case he found something the police might be interested in. He was out the front door and had taken two steps when suddenly he stopped. What if it was a bomb? Or a vial of virus or something dangerous like that? What had she said?

If they reacquire me, do you want them to find it?

So instead he went to his shed and put on a pair of gardening gloves, figuring they would probably provide adequate protection… after all she hadn't been wearing gloves at all. Then, just to be on the safe side, he also put on his fishing hat and grabbed a rake. That way if anyone was watching him right now they might just think he was out cleaning his yard. And, he thought while glancing at his leaf strewn lawn, they would also think it was about time. He hoped his neighbors wouldn't spot him with the rake… they might not recognize him.

He began nonchalantly making his way toward the hedge, occasionally stopping to drag the rake through the grass here and there in what he imagined to be a convincing manner. He didn't see anybody about, but then, if he were really being watched by secret agents would he see them? They know how not to be seen, he thought. Unless they're disrobing on your front lawn that is.

Presently, he arrived at the hedge where he was no longer visible from the road, and began studying the ground. There had been some rain recently… that type of gray autumn wet that Nick so despised, by comparison snow would be welcome, but as yet there was none. The wood chips, soil, and grass around the old yew hedge were not soaked but moist enough that the ground felt spongy. From here the car tracks were quite visible, as were the many holes made by the young lady's heels. In one depression Nick spotted something white and flat, but it turned out to be the butt of a cigarette. There was dark mauve lipstick on it. Nick fished one of the Ziploc bags out of his pocket and with a stray twig flipped the cigarette butt into it. For DNA analysis, he told himself.

After exploring the ground around and under the hedge, he began looking into the hedge itself. Old yew is a rich evergreen with rows of soft, glossy, almost rubbery leaves that are short and narrow. Such bushes grew tufts and clumps, rarely taking on a uniform shape unless trimmed, which of course, Nick's weren't. This led to all manner of hollows and spaces where you could hide something. Cespitose his wife called it. She taught botany at the University of Vermont in Burlington. They had met as students there in 1975 and had later both accepted teaching positions at the college. Nick taught calculus, number theory, combinatorics, graph theory, linear algebra… pretty much anything related to math. If the rumors were to be believed he would be the dean of the math department before he was 52. It paid more of course, but Nick would rather be teaching than administrating and getting dragged into various gatherings for hobnobbing and politicking. His wife joked that he must be the only mathematician that despised functions. It wasn't so much the functions, Nick didn't relate well to most people, he often found— ah!

There between two tufts of yew branches, right by the spot where the driver's door of the coupe would have been, was something balled up in black fabric, peeking out at him. “Peekaboo”… that's what she had called it, Nick recalled and with a pair of twigs carefully extracted it from its hiding place. Working with the twigs he carefully unrolled it on the lawn before him. What would be inside? It was too small to be a bomb… really not much bigger than a golf ball all rolled up like that. Probably microfilm, Nick thought, with some sort of top secret documents on it, or maybe a revolutionary computer chip for use in some larger device. But the more he unrolled it, the less likely it seemed that the fabric contained anything. In fact once it was completely laid out on the lawn, Nick was dumfounded. Using the pair of twigs he lifted it off the ground as he stood, and then held it up in front of his face.

“What the hell,” he said.

---

Tommy Parks sat half slumped in his chair at his console. Agency regulations required that any peekaboo be monitored until it was turned in at a field office. Because Ritter had ditched hers, there was nothing to see on the monitor in front of him, and he had long since turned down the audio feed. The regulations didn't say that both audio and video had to be monitored, and listening to birds chirp and the occasional breeze was making him sleepy. The windowless office was cramped, more like a closet really, and the fact that other agents in other closets were capturing video of criminals, subversives, or locations didn't help his mood. He glanced over at the gray console next to him. It had a large dark video screen, DVD burner, a digital clock, a microphone on a short flexible boom, joystick, and several lighted buttons, switches, and knobs.

He punched a button on the console and droned into the mic.

“7:14 AM, peekaboo 1-1-3 monitor agent Parks. Screen still black, peekaboo still wadded in a shrub in northern Vermont. Absolutely nothing of interest going on. Audio feed indicates presence of an eastern towhee. Next report 7:17 AM.”

Most hidden cameras were cap cams, cufflink cams, purse cams, or the immensely popular button cams. The peekaboo was not a button cam. It was in fact, ridiculous, but quite useful in certain settings. In fact arguably some of the best facial shots came from peekaboos, but that wouldn't do anything to dissuade the other agents from ribbing Parks mercilessly when—

Suddenly the monitor screen flashed, and an image began bouncing about. Something was happening to the peekaboo! Have the field agents finally recovered it, Tommy wondered. Thank you God! Just in case, he slapped a button on the console and the DVD began whirring as the red LED on it illuminated.

Eventually the image became steady and revealed an overcast sky and the dark silhouette of someone in a hat looking down at the camera. Parks grabbed a knob and adjusted the contrast to bring out the detail in the silhouette, but it was too washed out… that didn't look like Agent McBride. It appeared to be person prodding at the peekaboo with two branches. As Parks watched the man lifted the peekaboo off the ground and held it up to look closely on it. This improved the lighting of the image markedly and revealed that the person holding the cam was an older Caucasian man, perhaps in his fifties, with graying hair, blue eyes, a baffled expression, and wearing a ridiculous tan and blue hat covered with fishhooks and lures.

Tommy stabbed the white button under the microphone and stammered “Agent Drake to monitoring station 6 please, we have a problem.”

Two Caucasian women appeared on the monitor behind the old guy, they were wearing jogging clothes. He appeared to be saying something. Parks suddenly remembered the audio feed was turned down, and cranked it up quickly. All he needed now was for Drake to come in and ask why the audio was off. No sooner had he done so when the door opened and Drake entered.

“What's the matter Parks,” he asked, and then noticed the monitor. “Who the hell,” he said.

---

“Hi honey, ” Barbara said, “you'll never guess who I bumped into up at Windset Park—Pamela Smythe! She and Rebecca just moved to Mennemet last week. What have you got there?”

Still trying to puzzle out the significance of his find, Nick hadn't really heard her, and he turned while asking “What?” absently.

There stood Barbara and Professor Smythe, Dean of Women's Studies. And there stood Professor Huxton of the Math Department, holding a black spandex thong with two sticks.

---

The thong, looking less mysterious and more silly with its rhinestone accents now that it was safely ensconced in a Ziploc baggie, lay on the kitchen table. Professor Smythe sat there staring at it while the Professors Huxton stood by the sink, Nick trying frantically to explain and Barbara appearing nonplused.

“Well it certainly isn't mine,” Barbara stated flatly.

“I know, I told you it belonged to this woman I saw on the front lawn last night.”

“You saw someone on the lawn? Why didn't you wake me?”

“Well I was going to but I was too busy trying to figure out what she was doing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she was talking into her fist… like she had a communicator or something and of course I couldn't hear what the other person was saying but she was saying something about losing them in Montpelier—”

“Her underwear?”

“No! No some people that were chasing her, but they had tailed her here and so she needed to ditch the peekaboo and have a swap in Barton. That's when she lifted her skirt and—”

“You know?” It was Professor Smythe. “I, uh, I think I'm gonna go. I'll pass on the tea. I've been up the crack of dawn, I mean up… up since the crack of dawn, and I really should get black, I've been gone too thong. Long. It was so nice to find out you two live here… we really should hang out, uh, get together… someday. Bye!”

She fled with the alacrity of a student escaping a midterm. Wordlessly Nick and Barbara watched her go. Then Barbara fixed Nick in a particularly frosty gaze. He turned and looked at her.

“What?” He asked.

---

The Mennemet Police Station, like many of the buildings downtown looked completely out of place. The town hall, library, savings bank, general store, and even the gas station were built of whitewashed brick and each had a Grecian frontispiece, complete with concrete columns topped by a wedge-shaped pediment, also molded from concrete. Apparently the town was originally chartered in 1789 under the name of “Athens” and a local architect had built a number of buildings in the ancient Greek style, but without marble. In fact the town hall had once had a portico, but the concrete had collapsed and the townspeople had actually voted to leave the broken columns laying about like ruins. Then in 1908 a local historical society decided that perhaps history would be better served by giving the town a name reflective of the area it was actually located in, as opposed to a city on the Aegean Sea. The name of a local tribe of Native Americans that had lived in the region seemed a good choice, and so “Mennemet” was born.

None of this really mattered to Nick as he climbed out of his yellow 2001 Volkswagen Beetle and made his way up the semicircular steps that led to the station's entrance. Though he eventually got everything straightened out with Barbara, she had insisted that he take the thong and cigarette to the police station. That “poor woman” might be in trouble somewhere, and the police needed to be notified. Nick, desperate to remain in her good graces, had hastily agreed. But during the short drive to the station he rapidly realized just how stupid he was going to look walking in with bagged lingerie and a crazy story of a female spy who was desperate to keep them from falling into enemy hands. But that's exactly what he was going to do, because it was either that or have Barbara wonder whether or not he was “up to something”. Given the choice, Nick decided to take his chances with the police.

Mennemet was a small town, more of a village really, and despite the grandiose appearance of its police station, there were only 4 people employed there. The Captain Walter Mahoney, his two deputies George North, and Harris LeBeau, and the dispatcher Janine LeBeau, wife of Harris. When Nick entered and reported to Deputy North that he had seen a strange woman parked on his lawn the night before and that he feared for her life, it quickly got the attention of the entire staff. Not much happened in Mennemet, so anything was interesting. Heck driving on someone's lawn was enough of a transgression to get pulses racing at the station house. But as the story progressed, Nick noticed the faces around him slowly turning to stone. Resignedly he pushed through, describing how the woman had spoken into her fist and had hidden to avoid another car, and finally produced the ziploc baggies containing her cigarette and her rhinestone-accented black spandex thong.

Captain Mahoney began to look… stern, as he eyed the evidence but did not touch it. Deputy LeBeau was scrunching up his lips and looking at something very interesting on the ceiling. Deputy North had his face hidden behind his hand as he looked at the floor and appeared to be having trouble breathing. Janine simply looked at the Captain, her eyes twinkling and her mouth in a tiny grin.

“Mr. Huxton,” the Captain began, “you may be under the impression that we in the police department don't have enough to do here in the sleepy little community of Mennemet. You may therefore have assumed that we need a little more excitement here, and have invented this little story to entertain us. I assure you we are not entertained.”

Deputy North, his face still hidden and his head bowed, began lurching, as he desperately tried to stifle his laughter.

“You may not be aware that filing a false report is a criminal offense, but I am willing to overlook it this time, if you will take your underwear and go.”

Deputy Harris stared hard at the ceiling, his mouth scrunching and his eyes beginning to water.

“Captain please, look at me,” Nick said, hurriedly removing his fishing hat, “I'm not a teenager looking for kicks, I'm a middle aged college professor who teaches mathematics.”

The Captain was clearly unimpressed and said nothing, retaining his stern look. North continued to sputter.

Huxton stood and began tapping the thong with his index finger. “Obviously there is some sort of device hidden in this thong… something the agent called a 'peekaboo'. These rhinestones might contain microchips or listening devices or…”

Now Harris was laughing and Janine had closed her eyes as she began to flush deep red while uttering small gasps. Only the Captain retained his seemingly unperturbable expression.

“Mr. Huxton. If it will make you feel better, we will call the FBI field office in Montpelier and ask if any of their agents are missing their underwear—”

At this the dam burst and both deputies and the dispatcher began laughing unabashedly. North in great whooping howls, Deputy Harris in gasping sobs, and Janine in shrieks. Even the Captain's facade began to crack under the pressure as he continued.

“—and if so we will make sure they end up in the pants of their rightful owner.” More howls of laughter at this. “If however nobody claims them within 30 days we will see to it that they are returned to you, and you will be the lucky owner of your very own secret agent underpants. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

Deputy LeBeau, struggling to gasp for air, managed to strangle out “Spuh- spuh- spuh- SPECIAL AGENT UNDERPANTS! THE UNDER-COVERED SPY!”

At this the deputies and the dispatcher dissolved in raucous laughter and even the Captain put his head down on his desk and began laughing while weakly waving one hand at Huxton. Sensing he was dismissed, Nick turned and beat a hasty retreat. He glanced over his shoulder to see Harris and Janine weeping as they clung to the Captain for support while he remained face down and shuddering at his desk. Behind him Deputy North had fallen off his stool but could still be heard laughing though he was no longer in view.

Nick quietly shut the door and walked down the steps toward his car with the laughter of the Mennemet Police force echoing in his ears while wondering what the real estate market in Troy, Vermont was like.

---

Several minutes later, red faced and drained, their composure regained, the officers of the Mennemet Police Department had returned to their various duties. The baggies containing the thong and cigarette had been hung on the cork board by the door, with a hastily scribbled sign tacked beneath them saying “Special Agent Underpants.”

Mahoney was just beginning to wonder what he would have for lunch when his phone rang. He picked it up.

“Mennemet PD, this call is being recorded.”

“Captain Walter Mahoney?” the voice on the other end of the phone said. “This is Special Agent Underpants.”

---

Agent Westfield had been dispatched from the FBI Field Office in Montpelier within an hour of Agent Drake contacting the Mennemet Police.

“What sort of device?” Westfield had asked Drake.

“That's not important, just take an unmarked vehicle to Mennemet, go to the station house there and ask to see Captain Mahoney, show him your ID and tell him you are there to get your device,” Drake explained, “I realize you're not a full field agent yet, if you can't handle the mission I can send Parks.”

Agent Westfield had been only too eager to undertake his first field mission, and within a half hour of leaving the field office, he donned his shades and entered the Mennemet station house. Captain Mahoney came right up to him.

“You must be the agent they told me about.”

Westfield presented his ID. “Agent Westfield, FBI. Yes Captain, I'm here to retrieve my device.”

“Your device?”

“Yes.”

“So you're the one who uses it?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No. No problem.”

Mahoney walked to a nearby desk and took out a plastic bag and handed it to Westfield. Westfield stared at it for a long time. Meanwhile, in monitoring station six in the FBI field office in Montpelier, Parks, Drake, and several other agents doubled over in laughter.

“Did you want the butt that goes with it, ” the Captain asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

The Captain held up the other baggie. “The cigarette butt that was found with it.”

---

Nancy was to die for in her black velvet dress. Her blonde pageboy hair glistened under the chandeliers in the banquet hall. She stood by the stairwell sipping Chardonnay as several lowlifes in Armani suits gawked at her from various vantage points.

“Special Agent Ritter, ” the voice in her ear said, “we'd like you to make another pass by don Valerio, we need to see who he is talking with.”

Silently Nancy swept across the floor, setting her drink down on the tray of a passing busboy. She timed her approach to Valerio so that she could squeeze between him and another guest. “Excuse me,” she murmured breathily, brushing her breasts against his arm as she slid past. Both men turned to look at her retreating back. At the bottom of her completely open-backed dress her thong was visible where it peeked out from under the velvet, the trio of exposed rhinestones glittering, and the eyes of the don and his associate locked on it.

In his closet, Agent Parks was speaking into his microphone, the image of Valerio and the other man frozen on his monitor. “Now that's a beautiful picture. Thank you Nancy, I believe you just bagged the honorable Judge Fenton. Make one more pass by the bar and see if little Vinny is talking to our snitch and then you can make your exit.”

He let go of the mic and tapped Judge Fenton's face on his monitor. “Peekaboo, I see you.”

---

This story was my attempt to fulfill a writing assignment my friend Maggie came up with. I hope you enjoyed it.

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