The Victim of the System

by Steve Hadden

  After a late-night phone call to Scott, explaining what he needed to help Jack, Scott had flown in from Houston that morning the head of the seismic crew that had acquired the seismic data on behalf of Falzone Energy. Because the data was acquired by another company and then processed by Cole’s, Ike thought Scott had gone above and beyond to help find the truth about Tom’s death. With the unusual nature of the request, the seismic company’s president insisted on coming with its chief counsel. The executives would certainly gum up the conversation with legal constraints and cover-your-ass corporate speak, but Ike had confidence he could manage them—he’d seen it all before.

  Ike heard steps behind him in the hallway and Scott led three other men into the conference room. The president and the chief counsel were easily identified by their dark suits and stern faces. The third man wore a tie like a hangman’s noose and looked as if he’d been dressed at gunpoint. Scott made a beeline for Ike and shook his hand.

  “I got them here as quickly as I could.” He leaned in and pulled Ike closer. “Sorry about the suits,” he whispered.

  Ike patted Scott on the shoulder. “Thanks, Bobby. Looks like it was a package deal.”

  The two executives introduced themselves. Jeff Franz was president of ITR Seismic. Based on his pale skin and thick waistline, Ike pegged him as mid-forties and chained to his desk. Anton Keller seemed pleasant and young for a chief counsel. Franz introduced Pete Boudreaux, party chief for the shoot in question. Boudreaux had a thick Cajun accent and an energetic grip.

  He gave a wide smile and loudly said, “I just watched your thirty for thirty.”

  Both executives looked at each other.

  “On ESPN,” Boudreaux said, glancing at his bosses.

  “Thanks. That was a long time ago,” Ike said, guiding Boudreaux into the seat next to him. The execs looked lost for a moment, until Scott stopped at the head of the table and offered them the seats facing Ike.

  Keller pulled a single sheet of paper from his briefcase. “We have a confidentiality agreement with Falzone Energy surrounding this shoot. We understand the importance of this conversation, but we can’t share coordinates, data interpretation, or the area of the shoot. The location of the OCS blocks is public record and is already in the public domain. I’ll ask that Pete pause before answering any of your questions to allow me time to ensure it is within the boundaries of our agreement with Falzone Energy.”

  Ike thought it would take less time to recite the Gettysburg Address.

  “As far as we’re concerned, this meeting never happened,” Franz said. “The only reason we’re here is all the years of business we’ve done with Tom and Bobby.”

  Ike had carefully planned his opening remark to set the tone. “Thanks, gentlemen. I’m representing Tom Cole’s son.”

  Boudreaux dropped his head. “Sorry about Tom.”

  “Did you know Tom?”

  Boudreaux looked at Keller and waited for a nod. “Yes. We’d done several shoots with Tom in the Gulf. This was the fifth or sixth time we worked with him.”

  “He was on the boat?”

  Another nod. “This time. But the other times he came out only for the planning meetings.”

  “Why this time?”

  “He had very specific requirements for this shoot. There was a thick layer of salt above the target reservoirs and no 3D shot in the area. We used a special streamer he’d help us design specifically for this job. You know what streamers are?”

  “Sure. You tow those behind your boat to pick up the seismic reflections. They contain hydrophones and motion sensors to detect reflections of the seismic waves from the air guns.”

  Boudreaux seemed impressed.

  “I was on a boat in the Gulf a few times,” Ike said.

  “Okay. Just wanted to be sure.”

  “Besides being there for the shoot, anything else unusual about this job?”

  Keller interrupted, ensuring he was worth the airfare to Pittsburgh. “Pete. Remember, nothing about the data acquired or its interpretation.”

  “Can I talk about how we handled the data?”

  Keller nodded.

  “We all were required to sign riders to the confidentiality agreement that said we wouldn’t retain any of the data. Tom transmitted the data directly to his office after it was checked by the processor on board and okayed. We had a third party board the vessel and ensure that all drives and computers were clean.”

  Ike looked at Scott. “You said the data was deleted here?”

  “Yes. The information went to a special server that was only connected to workstations in a secured room. Only Tom had access. If he needed another geophysicist he’d personally let them in and watch them work. But he did most of the work. Once the processed images were transmitted to Falzone Energy, the same third party swept the server and the workstations. They took everything else. Never saw anything like it.”

  “I’ll say,” Pete said. “Tom wouldn’t discuss anything with us other than the necessary specs for the shoot. At the end, he seemed worried.”

  “When did you acquire the data and send it off? Complete the job?”

  Pete glanced at Keller again. “November twenty-ninth. I’ll never forget that day. An early winter storm was coming up the coast. I remember thinking that was the coldest I’d ever been. Glad we got the hell out of there.”

  Ike made a note of the date. It was two months before Patrick Falzone’s accident. Ike turned to Scott. “How long to process something like this and get a 3D image of the reservoirs they were looking at?”

  “It used to take a month or two, depending on the iterations around the salt layer, but Tom’s process cut that to around three weeks.”

  “So the image would have been received by Falzone Energy the third week in December?”

  “That’s right. But they would have worked it further for the specific targets. Tom helped with that, but all the rest of the work was done at Falzone Center.”

  Ike wanted to ask another question but decided to wait until the others left.

  “Anything else, Pete?”

  Boudreaux tilted his head as if scouring his memory. Then he gave a sidelong glance at Keller before turning back to Ike. “I think he saw something.”

  “Saw what?”

  “Something that excited him but something he couldn’t talk about—in the data.”

  Keller stiffened. “Nothing about the data.” He glared at Boudreaux, who yanked his tie loose as he eyed Keller, then winked at Ike.

  Franz stood. “We’ve said all we can here, Mr. Rossi. We have a plane to catch.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Bobby said.

  Boudreaux stood and gripped Ike’s hand again with a gleam in his eyes. “Do what you can for Jack. Tom loved that boy.” He followed the suits out.

  “Bobby,” Ike said. “After you see them out I need to speak with you.”

  “Sure,” Bobby said as he corralled the group down the hall.

  Five minutes later, Bobby came back in and sat next to Ike.

  “You have another question for me?”

  “A question and a request.”

  “Okay. I’ll do what I can.”

  “You said when we last met that Tom seemed different, yet you didn’t think he was depressed?”

  “I remember our conversation.”

  “If I were to ask you to speculate on the reason for the change, what would you say it was?”

  Scott carefully weighed his reply. “I’d agree with Pete. I think he saw something in that data.”

  Ike let the reply hang in the air for a few seconds. “Now my request.”

  Scott half-frowned, but his eyes widened as he stood up. “Hang on—don’t say a word.”

  He disappeared down the hallway and returned with an accordion file. “I think it’s best we end here,” he said, shaking Ike’s hand. “My assistant is waiting for you at the elevator.” He turned and rushed toward the door, sticking the file upside down under his arm.

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nbsp; “Bobby. I didn’t ask my—” Ike heard something hit the floor. He walked to the doorway and picked up a security card with a small yellow Post-it attached to it. On the key card was printed Falzone Energy Contractor and a grainy pixilated photo of a bearded man and the name Mark Smith. Ike looked closer at the Post-it note. It said Twelfth floor, third door to the right. User Name: Gongle21, PW: Oru12#4017, file folder: Minuteman.

  So much for the legal options.

  CHAPTER 30

  With the access card tucked into his shirt pocket, Ike dashed into the parking lot as the noontime thunderstorm did its best to soak through his clothes. The air smelled clean and refreshed, but with the card he felt like he was handling nuclear waste and the pure rainwater couldn’t wash away its effect. The longer he kept the card, the more it polluted his sense of fairness and self-respect.

  He reached his car and ducked inside, wiping the water from his eyes. This was not the way he did things. Even in the most difficult cases, he’d always stayed within the limits of the law. He knew the value of his reputation with both clients, and law enforcement opened many doors. His father’s advice echoed in his head. Money earned with ethics and character buys more than that earned with unscrupulous acts. He’d honored his father by following that code throughout his career.

  He started the Shelby and saw his eyes in the rearview mirror. Staring at himself, he felt the shame planted by his father’s memory. He leaned back and pulled the damp card from his pocket and rolled down his window. He turned the card between his index finger and thumb and cocked his wrist to toss it into the storm.

  A flash of lighting in the distance grabbed his attention, and then the image of Jack’s tearstained face surfaced like a drowning man fighting for life. The system was screwing Jack, even worse than it had screwed Ike. A heavy helplessness filled his heart, and for a moment he shared Jack’s certain terror. It morphed into the bottomless well of sadness and guilt he’d battled since his parents’ death. Failing Jack wasn’t an option. The system’s rules had been molested by the Falzones and their lawyers, so why not use their own tactics against them?

  Ike rolled the card into his fist and rammed it into his thigh. “Shit.” He powered the window up and shoved the card back into his shirt. After slamming the Shelby into first, he spun from the space and fishtailed out onto Southpointe Boulevard.

  The dark clouds had blacked out the sun and the driving rain gave the windshield a molten look. Lightning alternated with heavy thunderclaps and Ike could feel the wind buffeting the Shelby. He barely saw the traffic light ahead and slid to a stop. He calmed himself. When the light turned green, he slowly accelerated. Through the blurry rear window, he noticed a black Jeep Cherokee closing fast—too fast. The front grille was reinforced with a black tubular deer catcher.

  The Jeep was closing faster—accelerating now—and Ike downshifted and floored the pedal. There was no doubt, someone was coming after him. He’d expected it at some point, but not in broad daylight.

  The Jeep slammed into Ike’s rear bumper. Fishtailing on the wet asphalt, he quickly matched the Jeep’s speed, leaving his assailant a car length behind.

  The rain thinned and Ike spotted the golf course on the right, but a thick grove of trees quickly approached. Traffic was light, but not light enough for this. He looked down—already at seventy. The four-lane road provided some room, but there was no divider and any mistake to the right would end in a fatal head-on. A slip to the left and one of the hundreds of thick oaks would split the Shelby in half. Still, he slipped around the gentle curve and shifted into fifth.

  The Cherokee was still on his bumper. Probably a Hemi. Two slower cars, one passing the other in the right two lanes, suddenly appeared ahead. Ike had no choice: he veered into the oncoming lanes and found himself head-on with a UPS truck. He accelerated and darted back into the right lanes.

  The next curve was much sharper and he downshifted. The back wheels slid through the turn. When he recovered, the Cherokee slammed into the back, this time hard enough to snap Ike’s head against the headrest.

  Ahead, all four lanes were occupied at a red-light intersection. The forest on the right gave way to a thin sidewalk and another rolling hole on the narrow golf course. He yanked the wheel to the right and the car leaped over the curb, taking out a small hotel sign, and slid sideways on the wet grass. Ike accelerated and fought the car out of the skid. The Cherokee followed, but its tires dug deep and it faded back. Ike jerked the Shelby back to the road with a thud, and he felt the tires bite on the wet road.

  With the Cherokee still behind him, he couldn’t see the driver. Who the hell was he or she? Maybe this whole thing was backward? Ike didn’t want to be the prey. He rounded another turn and accelerated onto a short straightaway. The sidewalk remained on the right, but the next hole of the golf course had a water hazard next to the road. The shore of the man-made lake sloped down to the road, just a few football fields ahead.

  Ike slowed, and the Cherokee rammed the Shelby again. Ike accelerated with the bump. Jumping the curb, he raced down the sidewalk with his left two wheels on the walk and the right two on the slick grass. The Cherokee didn’t have time to follow and paralleled Ike, staying on the road. Ike swerved from the sidewalk to the cart path along the narrow fairway. Ahead, a foursome waiting out the rain abandoned their cart and scurried away.

  The lake was closing fast and Ike knew this was his chance. He slammed the brakes and the clutch at the same time, and the Shelby’s tires clawed at the cart path. The Cherokee shot ahead on the boulevard. Ike slammed the shifter to third and turned back across the grass toward the road. He lost traction on the sliver of grass and the Shelby went sideways. He could see the rise of the small earthen dam topped by a tee box just ahead. He turned into the skid and pointed the nose of the Shelby at the Cherokee. The car leaped the curb and he skidded back into the lane two lengths behind the Jeep.

  The windows were blacked out, but now Ike could see the desperation in the Cherokee driver’s reaction. It was now about their survival, not his. Ike’s anger about Jack was like a beast unchained. He wanted to get inside that Cherokee.

  The boulevard had narrowed to one lane in each direction, and when the Cherokee pulled out to pass a slower car, Ike went with him. The Cherokee shot back into the lane, leaving Ike facing a head-on with a pickup. Ike yanked the Shelby’s wheel to the right, missing the truck by less than a foot.

  Back in the right lane, Ike moved the Shelby close and tapped the Cherokee’s bumper. The Cherokee swerved but then pulled away. Definitely a Hemi. The road opened back to two lanes each way with a tree-lined divider. They ran through two more red lights and raced down the long hill to I-79. Ike closed to the Cherokee’s bumper again as they approached the on-ramp. Ike wanted to be sure they couldn’t slow for the interstate ramp. Too many cars and the state patrol might just get in the way.

  They raced under the overpass and up the long hill, passing both the northbound and southbound ramps. This would all end soon, with the T intersection approaching at the top of the hill. Two cars were in the right lane, waiting at the light. The Cherokee skidded to the right and jumped the sidewalk, ripping the park-and-ride-lot fence out of the ground. Tangled in the deer catcher, the fence ran under the Cherokee. The undercarriage digested the posts and fencing. Ike threw the Shelby to the left, downshifting and hitting the brake. Sliding into the oncoming lane, he passed the two stunned drivers in a four-wheel drift and skidded around them. Then he accelerated hard to the right and back on the tail of the Cherokee as it barreled down Morganzer Road.

  The Jeep was still dragging a section of fence, and Ike easily reached its bumper. Just as he clipped it, the Cherokee suddenly skidded and took a hairpin right onto a side road. The Cherokee nearly rolled but somehow made the turn and raced down the road that doubled back the other way. Then Ike pulled a one-eighty and barely made the turn. The car spun onto the shoulder and stopped. Ike floored it and roared down the road behind the Cherokee.

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nbsp; The road was narrow, with woods on both sides, but Ike wanted to end this. He saw a break in the woods just ahead. With the Cherokee slowed by the fencing, Ike closed quickly, then yanked the wheel right, hitting the Cherokee’s left rear quarter panel. The Cherokee skidded, but so did Ike. Ike fought to keep control as the Shelby slipped sideways and onto the right shoulder. The Cherokee shot left across the roadway and catapulted off a small embankment, landing upright in a small pond.

  In seconds, the only audible sound was that of both engines running. Ike opened the glove box and pulled out his Glock. He could see the Cherokee idling in the water, its wheels nearly covered. The passenger’s side faced him, but the windows were black. If the driver was targeting him, he’d never see it.

  He opened the door to forty-five degrees and used it as a shield. He slipped out, leading with the Glock. The Cherokee’s window exploded and Ike heard three rounds hit his car. He ducked behind the door and returned fire. The Cherokee’s engine roared, and Ike walked steadily forward and fired as the Cherokee climbed out of the pond. Without a passenger’s window, Ike could see the driver. Black mask, large frame. Ike could see the whites of his eyes and black pupils. The driver fired two more shots—not at Ike, at his car—then pulled onto the roadway and raced away.

  Ike ran toward his car until he saw the two flat tires. Watching the Cherokee pull away, he spotted the plates. Paper and temporary. He slipped the Glock into his belt and pulled out his cell phone. His pulse was racing but not from the chase. Ike was certain the only people who’d have enough at stake to attack in broad daylight were the Falzones.

  He called AAA for a tow, then noticed that his phone’s e-mail app showed three new e-mails. Another message from Tom Cole would confirm that they were more than just numbers; they were clues being sent from the grave. He opened the app and his eyes locked on the sender of the first message.

  Tom Cole

  53+25–7+47+10–7

  CHAPTER 31

  This had never been Jenna’s first choice. She’d planned to win. But as time was running out, so were her options. She could make Jack’s behavior fit the profile. But every word she spoke would slice a piece of her soul away. He’d be forced into years of evaluation and treatment that would condemn his sense of self and destroy the hope that he radiated each day. She’d convinced herself that it was better than life without parole, but the dark hands of doubt were pulling her back into the realization that Jack Cole was dead either way. And that was the easy part.