What Lies Hidden

by C G Cooper

  “Ow,” said Chance. “Where—?” Footsteps, then the man himself appeared in the doorway. His eyes went straight to the holster, but he didn’t move in that direction. “Mac? What am I doing here?”

  Mac forced a laugh. Stepping away from the stove, he lifted Brian’s bottle by the neck. “Mostly drinking whisky. You put on quite the show last night. Kept up with the champ.” He jabbed his thumb at his own chest. “Can’t fight physics, though. More mass, less hangover.”

  Chance clutched his forehead like the pressure from his fingers was the only thing holding it together. “Physics, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t remember— Wait. Yeah, I do. You got the bottle outta that fancy office, downstairs from—” Chance cut himself off, eyes brightening. “Hey! We found it, right? The gizmo Tiffany was looking for.”

  “Yeah, we did,” said Mac. He tried to sound excited, then said guardedly, “I, uh, need your help on something, though.”

  Chance looked around the room. For a moment, Mac was sure he would remember that he’d stopped at a single pour, barely what their unsuspecting benefactor would have called a dram. Most of the rest of the bottle had gone into two empty water bottles, currently stashed in Mac’s bedroom. It had been the pills Mac had slipped in by sleight of hand that had knocked the detective out.

  Instead of demanding an explanation, Chance sniffed. “Whatcha cooking?”

  “Sit down,” said Mac. “I’ll make you a plate.”

  Chance did as he was told. Mac divided eggs and spam between two plates. When he turned around, Chance’s Glock was leveled at his chest.

  “Val doesn’t like me drinking too much,” said Chance.

  “If you’re worried I’m gonna tell—”

  “Let’s quit playing cute.”

  “You first. If you were clear-headed, you’d notice the weight’s off.”

  Chance bobbed the empty pistol up and down to test its balance, then turned it around, gripped the barrel like a club.

  Smirking, Mac set the plates on the table. “Eat, dude. You’ll bust heads better on a full stomach.”

  Chance narrowed his eyes. “What’s in it?”

  “Pig and chicken,” said Mac. “Plenty that’ll kill you eventually, but nothing to speed up the process.” He pinched a bit of egg and ate it. “Talk to me. I need help.”

  Chance frowned at him a few seconds more. He sat back down, but kept the empty gun handy. Turning his attention to the plate in front of him, he said, “We animals, here?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where’s a fork?”

  Mac snorted and grabbed silverware.

  They breakfasted in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Chance said, “What’d you give me last night?”

  Mac sighed. “Ambien. Codeine. Half one of my anxiety pills. I’m sorry. Seriously. I needed time to work some things out. I think I’ve got all the pieces, now. It’s just— There’s still something about the picture I can’t make out.”

  Chance took a bite. “You could have killed me, mixing drugs like that.”

  “Would it help if I said I minored in pharmacology?”

  “No,” said Chance. “Maybe.” He shoveled in a few more bites. “Pig and chicken, you say?”

  “Spam and eggs. Kauai delicacy, my aunt used to send me out to chase the hens while she collected eggs.”

  “She make you catch the Spam, too?”

  “That was my cousin’s job.”

  Chance fumed over his plate until it was empty. He pushed the plate away, sat contemplating his Glock, Mac, the scotch, the door. He shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, man. Next time you gotta work some things out—” He exhaled, low and slow. “All right. You wanna talk? Let’s talk.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Mikayla’s office had turned out to be half the size of Brian’s. There was barely enough room to scoot around the small desk. Tapping keys on the ergonomic keyboard attached by cable to Mikayla’s all-in-one PC had given the SPD inside enough power to broadcast wirelessly over a short distance.

  Sitting in the townhouse kitchen, Mac said to Chance, “You’re gonna say I’m not thinking right, but I swear, Mikayla St. Simone is not our killer. It doesn’t make sense. You don’t have to take my word for it, just listen.”

  He told Chance about their meeting and touched briefly on events involving Mikayla over the past two nights. Anne Keyes’ role he explained in as much detail as he could. She had bragged about being a CIA asset. Could she be playing a deeper game as the mastermind behind the Nine Nine?

  Maybe Tiffany Garrett had been her enemy, not her ally. Anne might have used her connection to Mikayla to explain visits to her office. If she had her own master keycard, she might have slipped in while Mikayla was gone and sent the coded transmissions.

  “Nah,” said the detective. “It doesn’t fit. Keyes is smart, right? If she was working for the bad guys, she woulda kept her head down.”

  Mac agreed. “She seemed genuinely concerned about keeping Mikayla out of danger. And when I mentioned Jordan Ross, that stone-cold mask she wears slipped a little. She wasn’t acting, I’m sure.”

  “Let’s work it from there,” said Chance. “Keyes didn’t order the hit on Tiffany. They’re working together. It doesn’t make sense to send her to fetch a message when she already knows what it says. What does it say, by the way?”

  While the detective slept, Mac had spent hours reviewing the decoded signals on Tiffany’s phone. They’d left him with few answers.

  “Nothing that helps identify the players,” he said. Bringing up his working file, he spun the laptop around. “The SPD doesn’t discriminate. It saved every keystroke over a four-month period. This is what the Company algorithms flagged as significant.”

  The message dated September 9th, 10:37 a.m., had been typed out in plain English, as had the rest of the transmissions. Still, it didn’t say much.

  Communication test 1.1

  Repeat

  Communication test 1.1

  Please respond

  Code HYSTERIA

  Message END

  The brevity didn’t surprise Mac. Standard operational security.

  The next message came three days later, September 12th, at 10:19 a.m.

  First report HYSTERIA

  Subject CR-E6 injected sol 8.4.09

  Side effects min

  Prime effect min

  Subject suggestibility believed placebo

  Message END

  The reference to an injection had caught Mac’s attention, though he wasn’t sure of its significance.

  Another message had been transmitted a week later.

  Report HYSTERIA

  Masters:

  Remove the veil of unreason depending on the fabrications of flatlanders

  Servant of the HOLY and LAST illuminates the true face

  Sol 8.6.35 tests radiant for ASCENDING PHOBOS in cruciform

  Let flatlanders undeceive

  Suggestibility surpasses expectation

  Sub CR-E6 attentive to self-wound

  Undeceit of undeceit

  Patience to be rewarded

  Message END

  “This for real?” said Chance, pointing at the words on the screen. “Sounds like a Dan Brown novel. I wonder when the Illuminati are gonna show.”

  Mac ignored the comment. “They’ve got their own code talk, their own language. I think he—”

  “Or she,” interrupted Chance.

  “He or she,” allowed Mac, “is pleading for time. Fair dealing, too. This person has enemies, and the Masters are making the call on which side they want to support.”

  Chance re-read the message. “What are ‘flatlanders’?”

  “In science fiction, it’s a person who exists in two dimensions. That’s impossible, of course. A 2D digestive tract would cut a 2D person in half. But if they did exist, a 3D person would have good reason to look down on ‘em. Any movement in the third dimension would look like magic to a fla
tlander. It’s like if I drew a line on the floor. If you were 2D, it’d be a wall, impassable. To you, it’s nothing. You can walk right over.”

  “So he’s saying these flatland guys are weak. Probably idiots, too. Like snobs.”

  “He or she is, yeah. Only a 3D person can have a ‘true face.’ The ‘Servant of the HOLY and LAST’ is above flatland criticism. You saw the part about subject CR-E6?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No idea what ‘attentive to self-wound’ means, but I think CR-E6 is the subject of some sort of experiment. Sol 8.6.35 could be a new variant of the injection that was mentioned earlier. The fact that it’s ‘radiant for ASCENDING PHOBOS’ sounds like it was a success, or at least a step forward.”

  Chance shook his head, clearly trying to understand. “When did you work all this out?”

  Mac shrugged. “I like my whiskey neat.”

  He scrolled ahead to show Chance the flurry of messages immediately preceding Tiffany’s death. These were different in tone and content to their predecessors. The transition happened on December 23rd.

  Have encountered resistance

  Believe compromised

  This channel may be untenable

  Message END

  There were no more messages until the 26th, at which point eight were fired off in a two-hour marathon.

  Cannot reallocate subject

  Perhaps you do not recognize how serious the situation

  Message END

  Said the first. The second:

  Sol fast-acting, temporary by design

  Unsuitable to permanent alloc

  Message END

  A debate continued, culminating in the seventh message.

  Opportunity not to be missed

  Full personal dissolution

  Mac pointed out the return of the bizarre phrasing, which suggested that the later messages were hatched from the same mind as the earlier ones.

  “Dissolution,” said Chance. “That talking about Tiffany?”

  “I think it’s talking about whoever killed her. Read the next one.”

  Permission to eliminate

  This time, the author had forgotten to type “Message END” in his/her eagerness. The final message, dated December 27 at 9:14 p.m., read:

  Praise to the Masters

  Frost stills the winter flower

  PHOBOS ASCENDENT

  Chance sat back. “‘Winter flower.’ That’s our girl, right?”

  Mac nodded.

  “You got coffee?” said Chance.

  “Sorry,” said Mac. “Never touch the stuff.”

  “Only one thing to do, then,” Chance said. He got up, fetched his coat from a chair in the living room, and dug out a pack of cigarettes.

  Mac was surprised. “You want me to run to Dunkin’ while you suck that down, officer?”

  “They’re herbal,” said Chance, holding up one of the white paper sticks. “Canadian.”

  “That better?”

  “They smell better.”

  “Take it outside, anyway.”

  “Sure,” said Chance. He made a tiny bow. “Your pardon while I retire to the balcony, Exalted One.” He slouched past Mac’s seat on the way to the back door.

  Mac sat bolt upright. The detective’s joke about a balcony had shaken something loose. He brought up the schematic of the Admin offices. Last night, he had studied the diagram until he saw its blue lines when he shut his eyes. Now, the hidden truth he’d been looking for blazed like a firefly.

  “You got something?” said Chance, pausing.

  Mac pointed to the blocky representation of Mikayla’s office. “Look at—”

  A ringtone interrupted his explanation. Directing Chance to take his chair, he stepped into the living room. He expected to see Kreisburg’s number on his phone. Hopefully the old man would have good news about Lynn. But it was Chandra’s name that showed on the screen.

  “Mac,” she said, “you saw the news?”

  “No. It’s early even for me.”

  “The blizzard we’ve been expecting is blowing in more quickly than anticipated. There will be whiteout conditions by late evening. For safety’s sake, I’ve decided to close the campus, effective 6:30 tonight. There will be no traffic in or out.”

  Mac sprawled on the sofa. He was already hopeful that he and Chance could wrap things up today. Knowing that the lecture he’d been dreading would have to be postponed relieved the last of his tension.

  “That’s awful,” he said, doing his best not to let relief show in his voice. “But I understand. You’ve got to watch out for your people.”

  “Exactly my thinking,” Chandra said. Her tone was so cheerful that the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. “I’m pleased you agree. The schedule of weekly activities is set far in advance, naturally. I cannot easily accommodate adjustments. Justifying your presence here was a difficult - I will not say Herculean - effort. That is why I am determined not to let this development ruin our plans. It will mean some hours of work for my staff, but with determination, we will have time enough to spread the news.”

  “Uh, what news?”

  “Why, that St. Alban’s will host your debut lecture a day early. Not every ticket holder will be able to attend, but I will instruct our colleagues to fill the vacant seats.”

  “I thought you said you were closing the campus.”

  “I did, yes. Thank you for listening. I thought 4:30 this afternoon would provide ample time to get a packed house in and out.”

  “Uh—”

  “Do you mind, Mac? I realize it is an imposition. But a man in your line must be prepared to adapt, yes?”

  Mac slumped back against the cushions. There was nothing else to do. He couldn’t give up, not this close to the end.

  His eyes fell on a plastic bag resting on the seat of the chair where Chance’s coat had been. The detective hadn’t returned Tiffany’s compact to the evidence locker after all.

  “You’re right,” said Mac. “It’s a good idea. 4:30. I’ll be there.”

  “You’re sure?” said Chandra, rushing so he didn’t have time to answer. “Excellent. Thank you, Mac. We’ll get to work immediately.”

  “Great,” Mac answered, but the connection was already dead.

  Palming the compact, he headed back to the kitchen. “Hey, brother. I’ve got something I need you to do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  It was noticeably colder than it had been the day before. The blue sedan’s exhaust was a storm cloud trailing after the car. Mac cranked the heater to full blast but couldn’t shake the chill.

  He was a mile down the road before the bing bing of the seatbelt alarm drilled its way into his consciousness. He blinked and looked around. He was wearing his belt despite the car’s cramped conditions.

  The binging had come, evidently, in response to the weight of the portable transmitter, secure in its case in the passenger seat. His duffel was in the back, his gun case under the seat. It comforted him to know that as soon as Chance gave the signal, he could flee campus with all his earthly goods.

  Pulling over to the shoulder, he set the transmitter on the floor. When he pulled out, he had to stop himself from jamming the pedal to the floor. It would be easy to just keep driving, he thought. He could take the highway south, gassing up as necessary, until he ran out of road in Key West. Kreisburg would want the car returned, but surely the rental agency had locations in the Sunshine State.

  As tempting as it was, he wouldn’t leave Chandra in the lurch. A couple miles down from where he’d pulled off, he turned onto a logging trail. After making sure he was alone, he parked the car and stepped out under the forest canopy. Here, perpetual twilight reigned. He reached back beside the steering wheel to switch on the headlights.

  At first, he could make out nothing but trees and a receding path that got less defined the farther it penetrated. Then a shimmer off to the right confirmed his recollection.

  The original blue sedan was sitting just a few yar
ds further up the path. It hadn’t changed in the days since he’d abandoned it. He peeked through the shattered window, half expecting to see holes torn in the seat backs, but everything looked the same. Even the artificial new car smell was there.

  He stood looking from one sedan to the other, conjuring up images of St. Alban’s packed with staring faces. Not everybody in the audience would be a stranger, of course, but that made little difference to his hypothalamus.

  He should’ve closed the case by now and been long gone.

  In the best-case scenario, Chandra would understand his inability to set foot on stage. In the worst, she’d press him, and he’d stand frozen in place as sixteen-hundred eyes sifted him like cake flour. He knew the picture he was painting was irrational, that the danger he would feel would be non-existent.

  It didn’t matter. Imagining the eyes was enough to send him into freak-out mode. His only hope was that the powers-that-be at the Company wouldn’t care, so long as he completed his mission.

  Six years before, things had been different. After months of planning, he’d stood beside the steps of a rollaway stage as a mob of Sudanese students shouted the name of an up-and-coming minister. The minister’s dusty Land Rover had braked to a stop fifty feet in front of the stage and been instantly mobbed by well-wishers.

  “Boxer!” Mac’s eye-in-the-sky had called over his hearing aids. He’d steadily increased the volume as the minister emerged from the Rover between two heavies. The plan had been for Mac to lead a team of locals in clearing a path to the stage. He’d built a reputation as the kind of muscle who could get the job done. When political upheaval had reared its inevitable head, he’d offered his services to rally organizers from the University of Khartoum and been hired enthusiastically.

  When the time had come to push the students back, allowing his planted agitator to attack the minister with an improvised club, Mac’s stomach had rolled over. His heart fluttered. His tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. Adrenaline on overdrive, he’d bashed his way out of the crowd, inciting a riot that left twenty-four injured, the agitator included. No one had died, though this made little difference to the Company. On “medical advice,” Mac had wound up chained to a desk.