Spark: A Novel

by John Twelve Hawks

  Lorcan Tate. That was the only logical conclusion. Miss Holquist had given him the address and he had searched the apartment while I was visiting Uncle Roland.

  I held up my phone and whispered to Laura, “Are you there?”

  “Yes, sir. How may I help you?”

  “Display most recent photo.”

  And Emily’s letter appeared on the phone screen, the words glowing in the dark room.

  Dear Uncle Roland—

  If you’re reading this, it’s because I’ve stopped checking in with you. I’m in trouble. I made a choice and I can’t take it back. Just remember—Home is where the heart is.

  Emily

  I read this message several times until it was absorbed by my Spark. Why was the word “Home” capitalized? Was that important? Was she telling her uncle a secret that I needed to understand?

  Home. The word meant nothing to me. Sometimes, when I wandered through the city at night, I peered through windows framed by half-open curtains and saw families eating dinner or watching television. I assumed they were doing those activities in a home. It looked warm, and there was light.

  I returned to the living room, got down on my knees, and found the little music box with the bear, the logger, and the shack with two doors. The shack was a home—the only one to be found in the apartment. My fingers fumbled with the roof until it clicked open. Inside, I found the music box cylinder and—taped to the wood—a flash drive wrapped in a slip of white paper.

  Good work, Roland!

  I knew you would find this. Stored on this flash drive is a download of the illegal black money transactions of the Pradhani Group, a family-owned company based in India.

  This is a COPY! I’m going to send these files to Thomas Slater at the We Speak for Freedom Web site.

  But I want YOU to send this backup to them if you haven’t heard from me in two weeks.

  I love you, Rollie! You were my real father and mother when I was growing up.

  Emily

  The dead animals seemed alive at that moment, gazing down at me with emotions that I couldn’t understand. I remained on my knees.

  I took the subway back to my loft, photographed Emily’s note to her uncle, and then sent the image and a short description of what had happened to Miss Holquist. Outside, an ambulance was racing down the street—its siren sound rising and falling and echoing off the buildings. I took a shower and lay down on my bed, but my thoughts darted around like a firefly in the darkness.

  When a patch of sunlight touched the bed frame, I got dressed and switched on my computer. The Pradhani Group turned out to be a large, family-owned corporation in India. I didn’t know what was stored on the flash drive, but Emily wanted the data sent to We Speak for Freedom. This turned out to be a Web site created by a former MIT professor named Thomas Slater.

  We Speak for Freedom never asked for contributions, held a news conference, or issued a press release. But once or twice a week, the site would offer a wide range of confidential documents or clandestine videos. Currently the site displayed photographs of a dissident being tortured in Kazakhstan and a memo from a Japanese computer company about child labor in one of its foreign subsidiaries.

  My phone beeped and I slipped on my headset. “Where are you?” It was Miss Holquist’s voice.

  “In my apartment.”

  “Get your passport, both handguns, and the flash drive. Then walk outside.”

  I slipped the revolver into my ankle holster, dropped the automatic into a shoulder bag, and let gravity pull me downstairs and into the street. A black town car was parked at the curb and a woman’s hand emerged from a three-inch gap above a tinted window. Her fingers wiggled—beckoning me forward.

  I got into the backseat and found Miss Holquist with a computer pad on her lap. Instead of her usual business suit, she wore a red cotton jacket, a white blouse, and black pants. A Plexiglas shield separated us from our driver—an older man with a flushed face. It felt strange to sit beside Miss Holquist. I usually faced her directly with a desk or a table between us.

  “Good morning, Mr. Underwood.” Miss Holquist offered me a smile. “I must say that I’ve been pleasantly surprised by your unexpected talents. During the last forty-eight hours, you’ve displayed a wide range of skills.”

  She rapped on the shield with her knuckles and the town car began to force its way through the crowded streets of Chinatown. It felt like we were sitting inside a barge floating down a weed-clogged canal.

  “Give me the flash drive.”

  I handed the flash drive to her and she attached it to her computer. “Now tell me exactly what happened. I want to know how you found this.”

  I described my second visit to Emily’s apartment as Miss Holquist watched a list of files being copied onto her computer. The smell of her rose perfume was very strong at that moment. It felt as if my Spark was wrapped in yards of blue satin.

  “Why did Lorcan destroy her apartment?” I asked. “Was there a reason?”

  “He did that? Really?” Miss Holquist sighed and shook her head. “I asked him to search the place one more time and paint over the message on the wall. Lorcan always follows my orders, but he can be somewhat aggressive. He’s not as controlled and efficient as you are, Mr. Underwood.”

  “All files copied,” said Miss Holquist’s Shadow. It was a young man’s voice—not precise like Laura’s, but soft and calm.

  “Thank you.” Miss Holquist detached the flash drive and gave it back to me. “Take this. You’re going to deliver it to a client.”

  “So how do we know that Emily Buchanan is still in the country?” I asked. “She had enough time to fly anywhere in the world.”

  “Ms. Buchanan hasn’t used her passport since she disappeared. All we know at this point is that she went to the Financial Futures conference in London last summer. This is an annual event hosted by the bank for our international clients. Senior executives give presentations about new bond offerings while everyone nurses a hangover. Anyway … it turns out that a young Indian man named Jafar Desai was also at the conference. Desai married into the Pradhani family and worked for their companies. He and his wife disappeared two weeks ago, and it seems probable that he’s the person who sent the e-mail from Dubai.”

  “Should I keep looking for Emily Buchanan?”

  “No. Mr. Rajat Pradhani, the head of the company, would like to talk to you as soon as possible. You can give him the flash drive. Because of government monitoring, he doesn’t want the data sent through the Internet.”

  “Is he here in New York?”

  “Of course not. He lives in India. Right now we’re taking you to the consulate so you can get a travel visa. When that’s done, return to your apartment and pack your bags.” She handed me an envelope. “This is a round-trip ticket on a British Airways flight to New Delhi. You’re leaving from Kennedy Airport at eight o’clock this evening.”

  “I’m going to India?”

  “That’s right. So give me your two handguns. We don’t want your landlord snooping around and finding unregistered weapons when you’re away.”

  I gave her both weapons and she dropped them into a purple shopping bag.

  “Do I really have to meet Mr. Pradhani? I’d rather stay here in New York.”

  Miss Holquist sat back against the black leather seat. Her nostrils flared slightly and her voice was sharp and precise. “And why is that?”

  Trying to find Emily Buchanan, I had touched her clothes and smelled her pillow. I felt connected to my target, but I didn’t know how to explain that to Miss Holquist.

  “I’m tired.”

  “I understand, Mr. Underwood. If I had a choice, I’d rather be talking to my daughter’s dressmaker and tasting sample squares of wedding cake. Instead, I’ve stepped into a very messy room and now I have to clean it up.”

  “Send another enforcer.”

  “Mr. Pradhani wants to speak to you. He doesn’t want anyone else to know about this problem. You’re flying first
class, Underwood. You can sleep on the plane.”

  Twelve hours later I found myself sitting in a waiting lounge at Kennedy Airport. The television sound had been turned off, but I could read the captions at the bottom of the screen. There were more sex riots in China because of the lack of women. In Russia, the new czar appeared at his son’s wedding. Meanwhile the U.S. Congress was debating the Faith of Our Fathers Act, which would place restrictions on any religion that didn’t use the Bible as a primary text.

  Toward the end of the news hour, a talking head announced how many Americans would get married in the fourth quarter of the year. This was not a prediction based on previous trends, but a fairly accurate statement based on the EYE system. Both the government and large corporations were monitoring e-mail and credit card transactions. Surveillance cameras were everywhere, plus people were walking around New York making continuous videos with their G-MIDs because they wanted to remember every moment of their unmemorable lives. A great many facts flowed into the total information database, but the real power of EYE came from the algorithms that identified individuals, tracked them, and placed them into different categories. Yes, there was fate and luck and the faithful still believed in angels and divine intervention. But the equations proved that most humans—most of the time—are as predictable as machines.

  The growlers and the New Luddites hated the idea that their decisions could be compared to the programmed responses of a coffeemaker. Some of them wore random-number generators on a cord around their necks and used the numbers to make unusual decisions. There were still a few outliers, but the erratic behavior of these individuals was absorbed and neutralized by the predictable actions of the majority population. The algorithms could predict approximately how many jars of apricot jam would be sold in Warsaw or how many people would commit suicide in Munich.

  But the truly significant information was rarely made public. Did most citizens hate their leaders or would they hate them in the future? Would the growlers continue with their bash mobs and computer hacking or would there be an organized rebellion?

  In the United States, the Need to Know Act stated that an ordinary citizen did not need to know much of anything. This law was just one of several major bills passed by Congress in the months following the Day of Rage:

  The FREEDOM FROM FEAR ACT created the mandatory Freedom Badge ID card.

  The GOOD NEWS FOR AMERICANS ACT placed restrictions on anonymous bloggers and Web sites.

  The LIBERTY FOR ALL ACT stated that anyone who made antisocial statements or displayed unpredictable behavior could be held for sixty days without being charged with a crime.

  None of these laws influenced the energy of my Spark or the movement of my Shell. Freedom can only be taken away from the living. A dead dog is never attached to a chain.

  On the flight to New Delhi, I was curled up inside the white plastic shell that served as a first-class sleeping compartment. When they dimmed the cabin lights, I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing. In New York, my Spark could remain within the present reality, observing and reacting to objects around me. I did occasionally have memories, but they were focused on tasks and objectives:

  But when I’m trapped on a plane for fourteen hours, memory grows like a tumor.

  Gradually, images of the past push away the present reality.

  There is only one way to avoid this shadow land of memories; I force myself to enter the clean, orderly file room of facts. Over the years I have obtained all the police and hospital reports written about my death. As I read these official summaries, I became an object observed from a distance.

  As the plane began to cross the Atlantic, I switched on my computer and slipped on the headset. “Edward, please show me the police report.…”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “The document issued by the Delaware County Sheriff’s Department.”

  According to Deputy Sheriff Kirk Everett, I was riding a Ducati motorcycle on the section of Route 30 that runs past Pepacton Reservoir in Delaware County, New York. I was accompanied by Gerald Tannenbaum and Brian Farrell—two New York City residents without criminal records.

  I am not capable of fantasy—that is, happy or sad thoughts about various unrealities. But I can picture in my mind that October afternoon on a two-lane country road. First silence, then a growing sound of engines approaching until, suddenly, we appeared. Red and gold leaves are scattered across the pavement and our rapid movement makes them swirl up in the air.

  Did I lie forward over the bike’s fuel tank, feeling the vibration of the machine?

  Was there a race down the hill? Was Tannenbaum in front, then Farrell, until I sped past them? Did I turn my head? Did I wave? Or were both my hands gripping the handlebars as I leaned into the curve and hit a stalled delivery truck?

  The truck was owned by Gourmet Guy, a Delaware County company that supplies food to schools and restaurants. Its driver, a man named Bernard Alvarez (fifty-six years old, no criminal record), had just lifted up the hood and was staring at the engine.

  Downloaded photographs of the accident site show my motorcycle resting on its side with its front wheel and handlebars crumpled into a twisted sculpture. In one shot, a heavyset man wearing a parka (Alvarez?) is talking on his mobile phone. Approximately fifteen minutes after the first emergency call, Deputy Everett appeared in his patrol car and found my body lying on the pavement thirty feet away from the motorcycle. Tannenbaum and Farrell told the deputy that they had “removed the victim’s helmet and attempted CPR.” They stopped CPR when “they decided that the victim was dead.”

  The attached statements of the witnesses don’t mention my death. Mr. Alvarez talks for pages about the truck and its broken timing belt. Tannenbaum and Farrell explained that our plan was to circle the reservoir and then spend the night at a hotel in Downsville. Tannenbaum stated that this was a “guys’ weekend” because Farrell had just announced his engagement.

  I told Edward to search for Deputy Everett’s photograph on the Internet, but he wasn’t successful. Let’s assume that Everett was a muscular man in his forties, his policeman’s belt heavy with a gun and a Taser and a flashlight as he approached the accident victim. The dead man’s face—my face—was covered with blood and I didn’t appear to be breathing. But then, according to the report, a “pink bubble” appeared on my lips. Was this bubble formed by one final convulsive effort from my lungs? Or was my Spark trying to escape its prison? Deputy Everett didn’t have to debate the matter with the three witnesses, because an ambulance arrived a few minutes later.

  “Edward?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Display the Marian Community Hospital emergency room report.”

  “I’ve found it, sir. It’s on the computer screen.”

  CHIEF COMPLAINT: Motor vehicle accident with severe head trauma.

  HISTORY OF PRESENT ILLNESS: This is a 31-year-old Caucasian male who was brought by ambulance to the emergency department. The patient had been riding a motorcycle at high speed when he hit a stalled truck on Route 30. Ambulance was called and arrived at the accident scene approximately 20 minutes later. The EMTs (M. Spencer/J. Watts) checked patient vital signs. They placed him on a backboard, started an IV, and applied oxygen. Patient was unresponsive. During the trip to the hospital, the cardiac monitor indicated that the patient had flatlined. An EMT immediately started CPR and a thready pulse was apparent when the patient arrived at the emergency room.

  Only two nurses and one doctor work in the Marian Hospital emergency room during an eight-hour shift. Dr. V. Rahman, the first physician who encountered me, was born in Bangladesh and went to a third-tier medical school. According to the report, Rahman called upstairs and a cardiologist named Mitchell ran down to help.

  PAST MEDICAL HISTORY: Medical staff inspected contents of patient’s wallet. No medical insurance card. Driver’s license indicated that that patient was not an organ donor.

  PAST SURGICAL HISTORY: Information not available.
r />   MEDICATIONS: Information not available.

  PHYSICAL EXAMINATION: This is a Caucasian male, age 31, who has experienced traumatic head injury due to a motorcycle accident. The patient is comatose. A rising blood pressure and slowing pulse indicate that the patient’s brain is swelling. The pupil size was checked and did react to light.

  VITAL SIGNS: Temperature 97.1 degrees. Pulse 32. Blood pressure: 74/40. Respiratory rate 8. Pulse oximetry level 83% on oxygen.

  HEENT: Laceration of the scalp with bleeding. Fractured nose and mandible.

  NECK: Supple. Minor laceration.

  HEART: Slow. Irregular rate and rhythm.

  LUNGS: Clear to auscultation bilaterally.

  ABDOMEN: Soft. Nondistended.

  EXTREMITIES: Left tibia fractured.

  PERIPHERAL VASCULAR: Capillary refill is more than 2 seconds in all extremities.

  NEUROLOGIC: Patient unconscious. Eye movement fixed.

  MUSCULOSKELETAL: Patient has fractured left tibia. Fractured skull with severe head trauma.

  SKIN: Cold. Cyanotic. Multiple lacerations and abrasions.

  DIAGNOSTIC STUDIES: After patient was stabilized, he was given a CT scan and X-ray. X-ray indicated fractured skull, fractured left tibia, and fractured ulna. CT scan indicated profound brain damage of the left frontal lobe.

  EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT: Immobilized left lower extremity. Immobilized left upper extremity. Removed all clothes and prepped for emergency surgery.

  ASSESSMENT AND PLAN: Patient given oxygen. Lacerations were cleaned and sutured. Cardidor and Vican were administered via IV. Patient was sent to surgery via gurney.

  The report of the surgical procedure sounded like a document created to defend the hospital against a medical malpractice suit. When my body was placed on the operating table, my rebellious heart decided to stop beating. Dr. Mitchell made an incision in my chest, spread my ribs with a piece of equipment called a self-retaining retractor, and then held my heart in his hand and squeezed it rhythmically.