by Steven James
Ralph must have shared my thoughts. “Law enforcement could use this instead of facial recognition,” he said. “Install it anywhere.”
A tense thought began scratching at the back of my mind—what if this device could be installed on the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency’s next generation of spy satellites? The NGIA would be able to map people’s neural patterns, and since the technology could “see through” buildings or rubble, it would be able to locate and identify someone whether he was indoors, or outdoors, or hiding in a cave. It was Calvin’s global video project taken to the most extreme level.
Ralph’s ringing phone jarred me back to the conversation. He looked at the number and stepped into the other room to take the call.
And then the final hammer blow fell in my mind. It would still be theoretical, of course, but if it ever became possible . . .
I remembered what Tessa had said.
Think like Dupin.
As impossible as it seems, it did occur, so it must have been possible.
I had to consider it. “Rigel,” I said, opting for familiarity and hoping it would keep him talking. “Could the device be calibrated to do more than simply identify and map the pattern of neural impulses?”
He furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Could it be used to affect those neural signals? Change them? Disrupt them in some way?” He shook his head. With added urgency I rephrased my question. “Think. Is there any way at all this device could be used to identify a person by the unique neural signature of his brain activity, and then somehow disrupt that activity?”
“You mean cause a cerebrovascular accident?”
“Yes, give the person a stroke. Or maybe cause other irreversible brain damage that might affect behavior?”
“I can’t see how . . .” He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I can’t think of any way you could . . .”
Ralph stepped back into the room.
“Maybe with the cesium-137?” I said. “Or somehow through the laser targeting? I’m not saying is it possible now, but is it theoretically possible? You have a PhD in neuropathology. Could it ever be possible?”
“No, of course not. You’d need . . .” He stared into space for a long frozen moment, and then at last his eyes quivered, and his face grew ashen. “Oh . . .”
That was it. That’s all I needed to hear. “Ralph, we need to get Dr. Osbourne out of here.”
“What? Why?”
“This is my home,” Dr. Osbourne exclaimed. “I’m staying right—”
“It’s for your safety. They’ll come after you. You know too much. Listen, do you have any of your research here, or did you send it all to Building B-14?”
“I had some files with me at the conference. I was—”
“Where are they?”
“Mr. Drake,” he was stammering now. “He stopped by thirty minutes before you arrived. I gave him everything. Oh no . . . I can’t believe I’ve—”
I motioned to Ralph. “Take Rigel to the field office, assign some agents to protect him, then go find Drake and this guy Kurvetek. Find out who the other researchers are. We need to get them all into protective custody. But keep this as quiet as possible. We still don’t know who’s involved, and it might be someone in the Bureau, or maybe the police department.”
“You think Drake might be Shade?” Ralph said.
I grabbed the device, slipped it back into the oversized laundry bag. “No. I’ve got someone else in mind. Just get Dr. Osbourne to the field office, make sure he’s safe. Then go find Drake. Get Margaret to help you, she’s the only one we can trust.”
“Margaret?”
“She’s not Shade.”
“You’re not really making a lot of—”
“Trust me on this, Ralph.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find Lien-hua.” I tied up the laundry bag with the device inside and carried it to the door. “Melice asked for her by name. They know her. She’s not safe.”
On the way out the door, my phone rang. An electronically masked voice said, “You have something I want, Dr. Bowers.”
“Shade,” I replied. “I’ve been expecting your call.”
92
“I can assure you,” said Shade. “I’m not the only one looking for it.”
“Good. Let’s get together. You bring some of your friends; I’ll bring some of mine. We’ll have a party.” I started the engine and pulled into the street.
“Dr. Bowers, please. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
“Oh, now see? That wasn’t so smart, threatening a federal agent. After I catch you, that won’t bode so well for you at the trial.”
Shade ignored what I’d said. “You need to know this goes much deeper and much farther than you could ever guess. The only way to protect yourself and the people you care about is to hand over the device. I’ll give you a time and a place. If you do as I say, you’ll never hear from me or my people again. But if you make me come and get it, this will not end well for you.”
“Bring it on,” I said.
And then I hung up the phone.
Cliché or not, it sure felt good to say it.
Things were beginning to get interesting.
General Cole Biscayne grew tired of the mindless reality show he was watching and turned off his sister’s television. The instant the volume died, he heard a voice behind him, and it wasn’t his sister speaking. “It’s been a long time, Cole.”
And that was the last thing Cole Biscayne ever heard, because then Sebastian Taylor, the assassin Cole had trained more than thirty years earlier, the man who had once been the governor of North Carolina and was now on the FBI’s most wanted list, fired the Glock he was holding, the bullet entered the back of the general’s head and exited through his right eye socket, and General Cole Biscayne’s fresh corpse slumped forward onto the lush lemon-colored carpet of his sister Beverly’s living room.
Sebastian Taylor holstered his gun.
There.
That was finally taken care of. The general’s sister would find him later when she got home. Too bad he’d made such a mess of the place.
Now it was time to visit Cassandra Lillo and finish up one more piece of business.
I phoned Lien-hua and found out she’d gone back to the hotel. I told her to wait for me there, and then I dialed Tessa’s number but was only able to reach her voice mail. I left her a message to call me as soon as she could.
I hadn’t wanted to check on Tessa’s location again, but if Shade was threatening the people I cared about, I needed to find out where she was. So, even though I knew she would hate me for doing it, I called cybercrime to have them check her phone’s GPS, and after a couple minutes on hold, found out she was still thirty-three thousand feet in the air, forty-five minutes from Denver. Good. I was actually glad her flight had been delayed. Tessa was safe.
The main arteries of the city were clogged and traffic was only inching along, so I left the highway behind and began to pick my through the backstreets of San Diego.
I speed-dialed my parents and found out they were already at the airport. “Listen,” I told my dad, “I’ll have some officers meet you there. Go with them until things settle down here. I’ll try to make it home tomorrow.” He agreed, we hung up, and as I cruised through a yellow light I called my friend Lieutenant Kurt Mason with the Denver Police Department and explained what was going on. “Kurt, have two officers meet Tessa and my parents, Martha and Conor, at the airport. I’ll be back as soon as I can, probably a day or two. I’ll take care of everything when I get there. Guarantee me Tessa and my parents will be safe until then. If for some reason they’re not at the airport, send a car to their house.”
“You have my word, Pat. I’ll pick them up myself.”
“Thanks.”
I was almost to the hotel. I’d be with Lien-hua in a matter of minutes.
As they appro
ached the club, Riker slid his arm around Tessa’s waist. His tight muscles flexed against her side, and it felt good to be so close to a guy. She didn’t pull away.
It felt good.
So good.
She wondered if this was how a young bird must feel, leaving the nest. Independent and free, spreading her wings against the wind. Exciting.
So exciting.
The thrill of walking on the edge of the forbidden.
At the door, a mound of a man with a cement-block head held up his hand. His voice sounded like it came straight from a subway tunnel. “IDs.”
Riker pulled something out of his pocket, leaned over, and slipped it into the big guy’s hand. Tessa caught a glimpse of green paper. The man closed his mitt around the bills and waved them through.
Now inside. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“No prob.”
Pulsing, pulsing music roamed through the air and pumped and echoed all around Riker and her as they walked through a dark throat of a hallway. On each side, the shadows held impatient lovers groping each other in the cyclical, winking light.
A few of the guys nodded toward Riker from the recesses of the hall as he and Tessa strolled to the dance floor. Then Riker spoke to her, raising his voice loud enough to be heard over the sound of the music. “They know me here. I come here a lot.”
Techno music throbbed through the air, through the walls, vibrated up through the floor. Tessa loved it. Loved it all. “This place rocks,” she called out.
“One of my favorite clubs.”
She saw a few surfer types, but most of the people in the club seemed to have a darker edge to them. Partly Tessa felt at home. Partly she felt unsure. Then Riker took her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor, into the swirl of sweaty, swaying, leather-clad bodies. Tessa had been to clubs before, but never one like this. Never so intense.
Exciting.
So exciting.
The trance-like beat of the music rolled over her and through her. Seemed to course through her veins. She watched Riker shut his eyes and rise into the music, his whole body finding the driving rhythms of the song. She wanted to feel his arms around her again so she glided closer to him. Let the side of her leg nudge against his.
His eyelids parted, he smiled in a roguish way. Drew her close.
Exciting.
So exciting.
Tessa trembled. Maybe it was his touch.
But maybe it was the distant echo of her mom’s voice that day on the frozen lake in Minnesota. That warning, faint with the years, telling her to turn around, to stop wandering out so far onto the ice.
Tessa closed her eyes to the laser lights, ignored the muffled warning from her childhood, and danced in time to the music pulsing beneath her skin.
93
I needed to make sure that both Lien-hua and the device were safe, but I also wanted a way to draw Shade into the open. I figured I could use myself as bait, but not if Lien-hua and I were at the FBI field office or police headquarters. Besides, I still wasn’t exactly sure who to trust.
So after considering my options, I decided it made sense for Lien-hua and me to find a place to rest and regroup for a few hours where we could wait to hear from Ralph about Victor Drake, and also see if Shade would contact me again. After all, I’d invited him to bring it on and I figured he would be more than willing to take me up on the invitation.
So after Lien-hua and I picked up some fast food, we located a beachside hotel on the outskirts of San Diego called the Surfside Inn.
Along with the small suitcases of clothes we each carried, she brought in the food and I toted the laundry bag containing the device.
At the front desk, we checked in under phony names.
“One room?” asked the man behind the counter.
“Yes.” I glanced at Lien-hua and whispered so that only she could hear me, “For security reasons.”
“Oh, I see,” she whispered back. “So you need me to protect you?”
“That’s not exactly what I—”
She turned to the man behind the registration counter. “Can we make that a two-room suite?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A few moments later he handed us each a room key, and as I followed her onto the elevator she said, “Security reasons? I’ve never heard that one before.”
“What can I say? I’m a safety-conscious kind of guy.” I heard her mumble something about ulterior motives, and a couple moments later the doors opened and we exited to find room 524.
Once inside the suite, Lien-hua and I took a few minutes to check for intruders or listening devices—you can never be too careful. Then we sat down to finish supper. “I’m glad Tessa’s not here,” I mumbled, after swallowing a mouthful of cheeseburger. “Sometimes it’s nice to eat something that never had roots or leaves and not feel guilty about it.”
Lien-hua took a sip of her Diet Coke and worked at her chicken Caesar salad while I began summarizing the visit with Dr. Osbourne. I’m not a fan of briefings, so I tried to make my synopsis as short as possible, but before I could start explaining the connections between the different branches of scientific research, Lien-hua said, “Wait. I’m still confused about how the device ended up at police headquarters. Dunn just happened to kick the car containing it and then ordered that car be taken to impound? Doesn’t that seem a little too convenient?”
“You know, I’ve been wondering the same thing. Let’s check the plates, see who that car belonged to.”
I pulled out my laptop, but Lien-hua touched my arm to stop me. “Are you sure you should be using that? What if Shade’s able to track your computer use?” She removed her hand.
“Not possible,” I said. “Remember CIFER? It’s designed for field operatives. Masks the user’s location. I’ll just use that to ac- cess the Internet.” I tapped at a couple of keys. “Let’s find out who owns that car.”
Using my federal ID access number I logged onto the police archives and searched through the impound records; and a moment later Lien-hua nailed a finger to the screen. “It’s Austin Hunter’s car!”
“Unbelievable,” I said. “He was one step ahead of us the whole time.”
I tapped a few more keys. “The parking tickets are real. He managed to get them all since leaving the SEALs. He must have saved them up, stuck ’em on the car so it would get noticed.”
She thought for a moment. “So, Hunter must have known that if he got caught, the car would eventually be impounded because of the parking tickets. The device would be confiscated and stored safely at police headquarters and he would still have a bargaining chip to save Cassandra. Simple but elegant.”
“It’s just that Dunn’s impatience helped the process along.”
“Very impressive.”
The mention of Austin brought a somber mood to the room, and only after working on our meal silently for a few moments did it seem right to get back to business.
At last I continued my explanation of neural mapping, identity tracking, and the technological possibility of inducing brain damage or giving someone a stroke with the device. I ended by saying, “I know that at first glance this whole thing sounds unbelievable, like some kind of science fiction movie, but—”
Lien-hua shook off my skepticism. “Pat, cell phones were science fiction thirty years ago. So were mp3 players, DVDs, personal computers, smart bombs, spy planes, digital photographs, the list goes on.” “True.” As I thought about her words, I realized that nearly all the technology I need in order to do my job had been invented in my lifetime.
“Even a decade ago,” she continued, “who would have thought we could implant electrodes into the brains of people with physical disabilities that would allow them to type, simply by thinking of the letters?”
“What’s impossible today is commonplace tomorrow,” I mumbled. I tried to imagine what types of technological, medical, and weaponry advances we’d see within the next thirty years, but it was too mind-boggling to even imagine.
&
nbsp; “Besides,” she added, “if what Dr. Osbourne told you is true, the technology for this device has been around for years.”
“It just took someone to pull it all together,” I said. “To make the connection.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I’m almost surprised no one has tried creating something like this before.”
Our conversation brought me back to the troubling thought that I’d first had at Dr. Osbourne’s house, but in the rush to find Lien-hua and get to an out-of-the-way location, I hadn’t had the chance to look into it. “Lien-hua, what’s the hardest thing to do in a murder?”
Without even hesitating. “Getting rid of the body.”
“Right. So, what if you don’t have a body?”
“How could you not have a body?”
“By not murdering someone.”
She took a small sip of her cola. “I’m not sure I’m following you here.”
I surfed to the online archives of the San Diego Union-Tribune. “Remember when Hunter said he didn’t kill the people?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Who was he talking about? Which people? I figure that, since he was the arsonist, whatever deaths he was talking about would seem to be related to the fires, right?” As I spoke, I found what I was looking for. The obituaries page for April 22, 2008.
“That follows, yes.” She scooted closer to get a better look at the screen. “So, what are we looking at here?”
“The first of the arsons was reported at 2:31 a.m. on the morning of April 22, 2008.” I pointed to one of the obituaries. “And look. An unidentified woman was found dead that night on Euclid Avenue, within a block of the fire.”
“And that proves what?”
“Nothing. But let’s see if there’s a pattern.” I surfed to the obituaries for the date of the next fire, the one in Chula Vista. “Obits for suicides and natural deaths won’t necessarily list location, but they should list the time of death . . . And here we are . . .” I read it off: “‘May 17, an unidentified man died of natural causes sometime between 9:00 and 10:00 p.m.,’ that’s one hour before that night’s fire was reported.”