She starts for the Camaro without waiting for his answer.
31
Three hundred people are waiting for Cole in the auditorium at Graydon headquarters, most of them journalists, but he’s pacing backstage, Dylan’s voice tinny through the earpiece in his ear.
“Yes,” Cole says, “I’m aware it could mean anything. That’s why I’m asking you what it means.”
“I don’t know,” Dylan answers.
“Guess.”
“Can I see it?” Dylan asks.
“It just came in, and I’m a little busy right now.”
“Where are you? It’s loud.”
“I’m running my company, thank you.”
“Right. The stomach drug no one needs.”
“You spoke with her the other day. What is she planning?”
“I told her the world was full of bad men, and she should go find some and show them what she can do.”
“And now she’s planning something and she wants us to be patient and you have no idea what that is.”
“Well, maybe if I could see the message.”
“I said I’ll send it to you. Later.”
“Or you could tap me into your feeds instead of sending me things on a delay.”
“Not a chance. Speaking of which, you’re getting a package later today. The thing that’s inside it, you’ll need to wear it at all times.”
“A tracking device seems excessive. I’m just sitting here waiting for my subject to perform. Just like you are.”
“This request didn’t come from me.”
“The Consortium. Good to know they’re back in the game.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
On the other side of the drop screen bearing a projection of Graydon’s logo, he can hear the audience growing restless. The stage manager waves at him and points to her watch. Cole holds up a finger.
“E-mail me when the package arrives.”
Before Dylan can say another word, Cole ends the call with the press of a button.
He’d thought a little clarity about Charlotte Rowe’s message in the sand might focus him before he took to the stage, but talking to Dylan has only rattled his nerves.
A minute later, when he walks out into the floodlights, greeted by robust applause, he feels his performer’s instincts kick in. Media presentations are one of those rare moments when he feels like something more than a pretender to the throne. Maybe because, unlike some other aspects of the job, he’s incredibly good at them.
But he’s halfway through his speech when he hears Dylan’s voice saying, I told her the world was full of bad men, and she should go find some and show them what she can do. His vision seems to blur. Then he sees the puzzled faces in the front row and realizes he’s fallen silent. Once he manages a deep breath and starts reading from the teleprompter again, the words he hears coming out of his mouth sound like they’re being spoken by a stranger.
32
They should have made him wait outside the trailer, Charlotte realizes now.
Then, once she and Marty took the measure of both packages and realized how completely strange the contents of the bigger one were, they could have sent Luke on his way without letting him into the next level of this.
But they didn’t, so he’s up to date on everything. And now she feels stuck with him.
He’s standing with her on Altamira’s windswept beach, the whitecaps making frenzied love to Bayard Rock just offshore. Thanks to the mountains behind them, it feels like they’re much farther away from Marty’s trailer than they actually are.
Cell phone service out here’s lousy, but apparently it’s good enough for Marty’s text message to reach Luke’s phone.
“Clear as a bell,” Luke reports.
“That’s just . . .”
“Impossible?” he asks.
She nods, but she feels like a fool for saying so. In this strange new world, how can she know what is or isn’t possible? How can she know the first thing about a pair of contact lenses capable of transmitting crystal clear images of everything she sees?
They looked innocent enough at first. But the note with them felt threatening.
WEAR THEM WHILE YOU WORK.
Also in the box, an eight-inch tablet that didn’t bear the logo of any tech company she was familiar with; when they powered it on, an entry blank appeared in the middle of a black square. The passkey came inside a felt pouch; a digital counter containing seven digits. Every thirty seconds, the last number changed; every minute, the second. The third number took a minute and a half to change, and by the time they figured that out, they were all in agreement that every number in the sequence probably changed after a specific interval of time, so if you lost the passkey, there was no accessing the website that captured the contacts’ transmission.
She has no idea how the transmission’s getting from the contacts to the website, but she doubts it’s something easily intercepted like Bluetooth or a cell connection. For all she knows, the damn things have a direct connection to a satellite. They’d been so dazzled by the tech, they’d almost forgotten about the second package, the one with the plastic bag full of Zypraxon.
“Let’s head north,” Luke suggests now.
A few minutes later they’ve climbed the perilous stone steps back to PCH and are headed up the coast in Luke’s cruiser. She’s got his cell phone in her lap so he can drive, and the texts from Marty keep coming. Little comments on everything he’s seeing through her eyes while he sits in his trailer with the tablet. At least he’s a good driver . . . You’re coming up on one of my favorite trees . . . Looked like he got pretty close to that Camry. Is he distracted? . . . Ugh. A RAV4. Hate those. They look like a toddler’s shoe with tires on it.
They’re thirty minutes up the coast now.
“Any drop?” Luke finally asks.
“Nope.”
“Damn,” Luke whispers, “so they’re definitely watching, too.”
“I think that’s the whole point.”
“I need to head back, make a pass through town before I bring you to Marty’s so Mona thinks I’m on patrol.”
There’s a question lurking in the way he said bring you back to Marty’s. Should she answer it? Is she ready to decide whether she should let him back in? Maybe there’s a better way. Make him earn it.
“So what’s your assessment?” she asks.
“Of what?”
“Of these,” she says, pointing to her eyes, and the impossible, undetectable technology they contain. “Of what they’re doing with the resort.”
Luke furrows his brow, chews his bottom lip, signs he’s considering his answer carefully because he knows this is an audition. “You said when Dylan called you the other day he didn’t seem to know what you guys did at that bar, right?”
“Correct,” she answers. “Or he didn’t mention it, at least.”
“And why wouldn’t he, if he was trying to frighten you? I mean, he had no qualms about giving you my name and telling you stuff about that field we were in.”
“So you’re saying he didn’t know about me and those two wannabe rapists.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“OK. So what do you think that means?”
“Whatever his plans for you out in the desert, he wasn’t prepared to put eyes on you right away. It took him a day to get the kind of surveillance in place that would scare the crap out of you. Scare you out of sending my brother after him anyway.”
A little dig there, she thinks, but I’ll forgive him if he keeps coming up with strong theories.
“Keep going,” she says.
“I think whoever he’s working with, he had to go to them at the last minute because his initial plan didn’t go the way he wanted it to. Or maybe he was forced to go to them sooner than he wanted to.”
“OK.”
“And that’s interesting.”
“How so?”
“Because both possibilities suggest Graydon wasn�
�t in on his original plan. Which might also mean they’re not all that happy about what he’s doing. Which might also mean the relationship between the two of them has . . . weaknesses.”
“All right then,” she says, trying to conceal how smart she thinks these deductions are. “Why is Graydon buying the resort?”
“They’re investing in you.”
“Or trying to show me how powerful they are.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “These people could sweep you up off the street at a moment’s notice if they wanted to. I mean, the drones, the contact lenses. If it was what they wanted, you’d be in one of their labs for the rest of your life. And I don’t mean to be harsh, but as of a few days ago, there wouldn’t have been a lot of people missing you.”
A chill goes through her, and it’s not just from the ocean wind ripping through the half-open window. It’s because what he said was the truth.
“So why not?” she asks. “Why not just kidnap me and treat me like a lab rat? Why bail out my hometown?”
“Well, for starters, maybe they’re not total monsters.”
“Like Dylan you mean?”
“Yes. And if they bring you in, you become their property, which means you become their problem. If they leave you out in the field, there’s distance between them and what Dylan’s done.”
“OK. And the resort means what?”
“A nice gesture, perhaps. Or a peace offering from the good cop in the relationship.”
“A peace offering that costs millions.”
“Which is chump change to them. But not to you.”
“And that means what?”
“They’ve watched you for days now. It’s clear you’re not going to the police or the press. You’ve shown what you can do to only a small circle of friends. So they’re confident you’re going to do what Dylan’s asked. So now they’re investing in you.”
“Maybe. Or they’re just flexing their muscles. Showing me I can never outrun them.”
She can tell from the way he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel that he doesn’t agree. But he keeps his mouth shut.
That’s progress, she guesses.
“The point, Charley, is that I don’t think you’re being ganged up on. I think you’re in the middle. And that’s a better place to be.”
As he does his fake patrol through town, the words stuck in the middle roll back and forth through her mind.
Is it really better? Of course it is. Anything that diminishes Dylan’s power is a good thing. Had he gone rogue? Was that what their sessions in Scarlet were about? He was preparing to test a drug on her that wasn’t even his?
Take it that chat didn’t go well?
Another text from Marty; this one reminds her of the one technological limitation of her mysterious new gift—no audio. For them, it’s a limitation. For her, it’s a perk.
On our way back now, she answers. I no longer want to strangle him.
Marty’s waiting for them on the front deck when they pull up.
She figures Luke will follow her inside if she just doesn’t say anything, but when she steps from the cruiser, he doesn’t unbuckle his seat belt.
“I better check in back at the station.” If there were any more expectation in his stare, he’d be a kid on Christmas Eve.
“What time do you get off?” she asks.
“Seven.”
“Marty’s grilling.”
“He any good?”
“Come back after you get off and find out.”
His smile fades. “Does this mean I’m back in?”
“It means you should come eat with us.”
“Fair enough,” he says.
She watches him pull away.
“You got an extra steak?” she calls out to Marty, who she’s pretty sure heard the whole exchange from where he’s standing, hands braced against the deck rail.
“I always get extra.”
“Good.”
“You sure you’ve forgiven him, or are you inviting him to dinner because you like him in that uniform?”
“He’s smart,” she says as she walks up onto the deck. The cruiser’s taillights round the last visible bend in the road. “And he says the reason he freaked out the other night is because he was worried about me.”
“Men always say that kinda shit when they fuck up,” Marty growls.
“Takes one to know one.”
“Yep.”
“You got a steak for him or not?” she asks.
“Sure thing.”
“His uniform does nothing for me, by the way.” She heads inside before he can see the lie in her eyes.
33
Once Cole’s made the rounds of the postpresentation cocktail reception, smiling, nodding, chitchatting with those board members present, he slips back upstairs.
He’s one of the first. The carpeted hallways are empty; most of the glass office doors are closed. It’s no surprise his administrative staff is using the presentation as a chance to unwind for a bit, which, at a company like Graydon, means drinking one and a half cocktails out of plastic cups while deigning to make small talk with a coworker who might have a less advanced degree than you.
Inside his locked desk drawer is the personal laptop he’s set up for what may or may not become Phase II of Project Bluebird. He pulls it out, enters his password, and blacks out his soaring windows with the press of a button.
There’s an e-mail from Dylan, which surprises him. He knows the package was received at four o’clock that afternoon, but he expected the guy not to let him know out of mere defiance.
From his pocket, he pulls out the digital key Julia Crispin provided him with, uses the current code to log in to the portal for both feeds.
If one screen is black, he can use the archive link underneath it to access the most recent four hours of footage. But the screen for DC—Dylan Cody—is black and there’s no link below. So Dylan received the package, but he hasn’t activated his TruGlass yet. Maybe defiance is still in play.
CR’s also black, but in her case, there’s archived footage.
He watches her slide the lenses in, takes in the startled expressions of the men with her, the cop, Luke Prescott, and the long-haired contractor with the dishonorable discharge from the marines and the brief stint in jail for aggravated assault, Martin Cahill. If there’s an odder crew out there, they’re probably on a sitcom. The lack of audio is frustrating, but he’s still stunned by how clear the images are. A few notches below high-definition TV.
Charlotte and the cop head outside, get into the guy’s sheriff’s cruiser, drive through that little town, then into the mountains.
Could they have taken off in search of a target that soon?
No way, he thinks.
When they park on the side of Pacific Coast Highway, he realizes they must be testing the thing’s range. Based on their expressions, they’re as impressed as he is.
The voyeurism of it all is distracting, and he finds himself enamored by the fairly ordinary sight of them descending a set of stone steps to a windswept, rugged beach below; he’s so enamored, he misses Dylan’s feed coming to life, until the word live pops up next to a green dot just underneath his screen.
At first he’s not sure what’s he’s watching in the second panel.
Blurs of movement. Maybe it’s the packaging being torn away.
A black T-shirt hits tiled floor next to bare feet.
A hand turns a shower knob.
The image seems to jerk a little.
Blinks, Cole realizes. Lots of them. Dylan must be getting used to the way the things sit in his eyes.
Suddenly Dylan’s staring right back at him, through a small mirror that’s about to fog. He douses his head under the shower’s spray, makes a kissy face and sleepy eyes. Then he looks down, giving Cole a perfect view of the water sluicing down his muscular body as he grabs his cock and balls from below and starts soaping them like a porn star.
Cole slams the screen of his laptop
shut, cursing under his breath.
When he calls Ed Baker, his director of security, the man answers after one ring.
“How’s our girl?” Cole asks.
“Had to bring the microdrones down at dusk, but ground teams A and B both have eyes on Cahill’s trailer.”
“She inside?”
“Nope. And she’s got guests.”
“Outside?”
“Yep. It’s a cookout.”
Is Ed joking?
The sustained silence tells him that’s not the case. The man’s tone is certainly frostier than usual; it has been since they flew to meet Dylan in Arizona. If Ed had his way, they’d clear the warehouse of all the surveillance equipment tracking Charlotte Rowe and use the space to waterboard Dylan into revealing whether or not he’s altered Zypraxon’s formula.
Note to file: don’t put Ed Baker and Julia Crispin in the same room together. He might have an insurrection on his hands that ends with Dylan’s balls being electrocuted.
“So that’s what she was planning?” Cole finally asks. “A cookout?”
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say no.”
“Then what the hell is she doing?”
“Everybody needs downtime.”
“She’s had two days of it. And she’s the one who just told us she’s planning something. Was she messing with us?”
“We need to find out more about what Dylan said to her during that call,” Ed offers. “Whatever it was, it made her destroy that disposable phone.”
“Dylan claims he gave us a full account of his call.”
“We can’t know that for sure. It’s reckless, letting him talk to her.”
“We’ve got better eyes on him now. He just activated his TruGlass.”
“Yeah. About that.”
“Yeah, I know. He’s showering.”
“Sort of. Look, we don’t know how much he’s told this girl, and we can’t let him be the only one communicating with her.”
He isn’t, Cole wants to say. But he’s not telling Ed about the purchase he made that afternoon, or the jobs he’ll be able to bring back to Altamira after a few phone calls. He’s communicating with Charlotte Rowe, all right, but in his own way. And damn if he’ll run any of that by Ed, who has begun talking out of school because he hates being cooped up in warehouses overseeing outside security contractors.
Bone Music Page 28