by Steven James
“I’m sorry, Francis.” Skylar went to stand next to Ivan. “It had to be like this.”
“What? You were in on this?”
Spinning and twisting.
Dipping and diving.
Corkscrewing downward and out of control.
Ivan said, “If you don’t do as we say when you get that email, Skylar will claim that it wasn’t consensual last night. And with those bruises, and since I was never here, who’s going to doubt her? After all, considering what you do for a living, the images you look at every day, it would be quite believable that you would decide to act out some of the things you’ve seen.”
Francis told himself that he must be dreaming and tried to wake up, tried to make all this go away.
“You’re going to help us,” Ivan continued. “Do you know how much prison time you could be facing for raping this lovely young lady?” He slid his finger down Skylar’s cheek and then along her jawline.
“Don’t touch her!” Francis yelled.
Skylar brushed the man’s hand away, but said to Francis, “You need to listen to him. You’re in over your head here.”
Ivan glanced at his watch. “You better get going, Francis, or you’re gonna be late for work. And with the big fundraiser tonight, they won’t be very happy with you if that happens.”
“No,” Francis said defiantly. “I won’t do it. I won’t compromise our system no matter what you do to me. Even if Skylar lies, even if I get in trouble, I’m not going to do it because it’s not right and I won’t do something that I know is wrong. Not purposely. Not ever.”
Ivan looked at Skylar. “Is this guy for real?”
“I would believe him. He has an honest heart.”
“Uh-huh. Well, in that case, there’s something I need to show you, Francis.”
He reached into his pocket, produced a bracelet, and tossed it at Francis’s feet.
It was the one Skylar had made for Derek and had tied onto his wrist Sunday afternoon.
Or at least it looked like the same one.
She could have made two. It might be a duplicate. Maybe she made it because she knew this was going to happen.
“When did you get that?” Skylar asked Ivan.
“I paid the kid a visit last night.”
“That wasn’t part of the—”
“Don’t you worry about that.” He turned to Francis. “Next time I’ll bring you the arm it was attached to. Test me if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“Listen, Francis,” Skylar said. “We don’t want to hurt anyone. The people behind this can get good care for Derek, they can help him, help with the research. If you do this for us, I’ll make sure they do.”
“We don’t have permission to offer him that,” Ivan countered.
“I have some sway.” Then she addressed Francis again. “You have a simple job. When you get the email, click on the link, download the file, open it, and Derek will be fine and all this will go away.”
“A virus.”
“A file,” Ivan said. “That’s all you need to know, and if you call the police or the FBI we’ll know about it and we will hurt Derek in ways you don’t even want to imagine.”
Francis was quiet.
“Come on,” Ivan told Skylar. “It’s time for us to go. Francis needs to get ready for work. We wouldn’t want to make him late. Not today.”
She went to gather her things. “Don’t be angry, Francis. It isn’t personal. I like you. And we really can do good things for Derek if you help us. I promise.”
76
8:00 a.m.
13 hours left
I finished my prison workout, took a shower, and got dressed.
Without access to my work files, I felt a little directionless, and if Blake didn’t follow up on something here at nine, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do for the day.
Yesterday, I’d contemplated visiting Billy McReynolds. That was always a possibility.
Checking my email, I saw that DeYoung had replied to my message from last night, thanking me for keeping him in the loop.
As I read through his reply I could almost hear him clearing his throat every sentence or two.
I put on some Ethiopian Yirgacheffe from Blessed Nirvana Roasters and settled in to see what I could figure out about the file sharing options on Exo-Skel IV.
+++
On his way to the subway tunnel, Francis tried to make sense of what had just happened at his apartment. Skylar had betrayed him. He was in big trouble and he didn’t have any good options.
Either he downloaded the file or Derek might be harmed, killed even.
He was passing a newsstand when the headline of one of the city’s newspaper’s caught his eye.
It announced that the FBI agent who’d shot a man last week had been put on administrative leave.
There was a photo of Agent Bowers, the man Francis had met on Friday, the one who’d sent him the link to the cache of more than sixteen thousand images.
He was suspended?
It was a little hard to believe. He’d seemed so honest and professional and perceptive, especially about the video that had that backpack.
In fact, it was almost like he knew exactly what to look for.
Well, people aren’t always who they appear to be.
Bowers wasn’t.
Skylar wasn’t.
Graciousgirl4 wasn’t.
Maybe no one is who they appear to be when the masks are finally ripped away.
Who are you, Francis? What are you capable of?
What masks are you wearing?
+++
I was looking for clues to anyone who might have shared a video called “Aurora’s birthday” on Exo-Skel IV’s community forum when I glanced at the clock and realized that it was just a couple minutes before nine.
Still no word from Blake.
Tobin called and I picked up.
“Anything more on Lloyd?” I asked.
“No. Remember how we had some officers checking to see if any other women who’d been brought to Romanoff’s condo had disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Well, as far as we can tell, none did—which is good news, but it doesn’t help us any.”
“I’ll take any good news I can get it.”
Someone buzzed Christie’s apartment number at the front of the building. “Hello? I have a package for Dr. Bowers in 416.”
I checked the time.
Nine o’clock exactly.
“Hang on,” I told Tobin. “I need to get this.”
77
9:00 a.m.
12 hours left
Still on the line, I buzzed the courier into the apartment building.
“What is it?” Tobin asked.
“Someone’s here. He’s on his way up now. There’s a package for me.”
“But who even knows you’re staying there with Christie?”
“Blake might—if he had me followed.”
Who else? Well, Tobin and Jodie. Agent Descartes was helping her move the other day; he might have overheard something.
“Interestingly enough,” I said, “the delivery guy said the package was for Dr. Bowers, not Agent Bowers.”
“Does Blake know you have a PhD?”
“He might. It’s not something I usually put out there, though.” I recalled that Maria Aguirre had commented on my PhD when I first met with her on Thursday. Really, since my academic history was detailed in my personnel file, anyone with access to it could have known that.
Or anyone who’d read either of my two books.
Tobin told me that he was going to spend the morning looking for any connections between Lloyd and the other people we knew of who had ties to the Final Territory. “What are you up to today?” he
asked me.
The doorbell rang.
“I may be about to find out,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
“Always.”
Though I’d had to turn in my Bureau-issued firearm, many agents own a personal handgun, and I was no exception.
So now I had the.357 SIG P229 ready as I answered the door and found the deliveryman standing there holding a package about the size of a shoebox and wrapped in plain brown paper. He also held a clipboard with a form for me to sign.
I didn’t aim the gun at him, but I was holding it ready by my side and let him see that I was armed. “Set the package down.”
He gulped, eyes on the gun, but didn’t move.
“Just set it down. Do it slowly.”
Finally, he did, then stood again and, quivering, held out the clipboard. “I, um . . . I normally, I need you to sign for . . .” He was still staring at my SIG. “But I can always just take your word for it.”
With my free hand I scribbled my name on the line.
There was no return address on the package. “What can you tell me about the person who gave this to you?”
The guy shook his head. “They just hand ’em to me at work and I deliver ’em. I have no idea who dropped it off.”
“Alright. Thanks. You can go.”
He nodded, then backed a few steps down the hall before turning and hurrying the rest of the way to the elevator.
I picked up the package and went back into the apartment, closing the door behind me.
I put the gun away, set the box on the table, and studied it.
With the potential that there was something toxic inside it, I opted not to open it in here and chance exposing Christie’s place to whatever that might be.
It’d be best to open it somewhere else, somewhere out in the open where I’d be the only one in any danger.
The park I’d cut across yesterday when I was running to meet up with Blake’s man had some secluded areas that were almost always free of foot traffic and pedestrians.
Ideally, it might be best to have a bomb squad open this box, but I was pretty sure there wasn’t a bomb in here.
Not positive.
But satisfied enough to go for it.
Decision made, I slipped my laptop into its bag and grabbed my burner phone and my personal cell. Then I slid my folded-up automatic knife and the key from Blake into my pocket, and, carrying the package, I left for the park.
+++
Tessa was distracted during her history exam as she found herself thinking about what kind of logic problem to come up with for Patrick.
She wanted something different, but also something that could throw him off.
A twist.
That’s what she needed.
Something that would lead him in one direction, play to his expectations, and then turn them against him.
She had two other finals today and didn’t intend to cram for either of them. Hopefully, that would give her enough time to come up with something good.
+++
As I traversed the sidewalk, I kept an eye out for anyone who might have been following me, especially any of the men who’d been in the bar yesterday when I met up with Blake.
I saw no one.
At last, confident I was alone, I slipped through the trees and found the most remote part of the park, made sure no other people were around, and laid the box on the grass.
I flicked out my automatic knife.
Carefully, I removed the brown paper that the box was wrapped in.
It appeared to be just a plain corrugated cardboard box with the top flaps taped shut.
I cut the tape, and as I opened the flaps, I found myself holding my breath.
But there was no bomb, no poison, no anthrax spores. No tarantulas or copperhead snakes.
No needles, thank God.
Nothing dangerous.
Instead, nestled on a bed of silky black cloth was a white mask identical to the ones that appeared in the video that contained the image of D’Nesh’s backpack.
I examined the mask carefully before removing it. Beneath it was a notecard that read Tonight at nine. 54 North Worthy Drive.
Handwriting different from Randy’s suicide note.
When I took a closer look at the black cloth, I realized that it was actually a hood.
I could certainly have these items checked for fingerprints and DNA, but that’s probably not what a dishonest agent hoping to get into the Final Territory would do.
No, if we were going to make this happen, right now I needed to engender Blake’s confidence, and he quite possibly had a contact at the Bureau, perhaps on the task force, who would be able to find out about any tests I ordered.
I wrapped the mask in the black hood to preserve prints, put it in my computer bag, and discarded the box and paper in a recycling bin on the edge of the park.
Then I went to a coffee shop to go online and look up who lived at 54 North Worthy Drive.
78
Francis arrived at work.
Ivan had told him that the email would come in the afternoon, but at the moment, Francis had something else on his mind other than viruses and compromised computer systems.
He called St. Stephen’s Research Hospital to check on Derek. The receptionist connected him to the boy’s room.
“Hello?” Derek answered uncertainly.
“Derek, this is Mr. Edlemore. Are you alright?”
“Oh. Yeah. I’m okay.”
“Good, good. Do you still have that nice bracelet Miss Shapiro gave you?”
“No. I had it last night, but when I woke up this morning it was gone! Somebody stole it!”
That was not what Francis wanted to hear. He’d been hoping that the one Ivan had shown him this morning was simply a duplicate.
“I’m sorry someone took it,” he told Derek.
“Maybe she can make me another one.”
“Maybe.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Soon.”
“Is Miss Shapiro coming with you? She was nice.”
“We’ll see.”
“She promised to.”
“I know.”
But we’re not friends anymore, Francis thought. She lied to me. She’s working for some very bad people. But he didn’t say any of those things, of course. “We’ll get you another bracelet,” he told Derek. He was looking at the one on his own wrist as he said the words. “An even better one.”
After the call, Francis managed to remove the bracelet that Skylar had given him.
If nothing else, he could give it to Derek once all this was over.
Why did you ever trust her?
Well, just like Derek said, she was nice.
Just because someone is nice doesn’t mean you should trust them!
Francis tried to process everything.
Ivan had snuck into Derek’s room last night while he was asleep and had taken the bracelet.
Just thinking about how he’d invaded Derek’s room like that, and then how he’d punched Skylar in the face, made Francis angry all over again—even though he knew she wasn’t to be trusted, that she was on the wrong side of this.
Maybe Ivan and his people were threatening her. Maybe that’s why she was doing this.
Yes. That’s it. That has to be it.
He couldn’t think of any other reason why she might have helped them.
Maybe she’s just bad, Francis. There are bad people out there. You know that better than anyone. And she’s one of them.
No, she’s not!
Yes. Francis. Yes, she is.
Preoccupied by his thoughts, he took the St. Stephen’s Research Hospital mug from his desk and went to the break room to get some co
ffee.
Ivan had warned him not to contact the police about what was happening, but what about telling them that someone was sneaking around the hospital stealing things from children who were dying of cancer? Did that count?
Of course. These people aren’t going to want you talking to the police about anything.
At the coffeemaker, Claire approached him and smiled. “All ready for tonight?”
“I was just about to get started on my work,” he said distractedly.
“Of course. Well, I wanted to tell you that I decided to let everyone off a little early today. This way we can have time to get ready for tonight.”
“How early?”
“I’ll be closing the doors at four, but if you need to leave earlier, that can be arranged.”
Four?
No, what if the email comes in after that?
Certainly when Ivan said it would arrive in the afternoon he meant before four.
Maybe not. You don’t know that for sure!
“Well.” Claire gave Francis’s shoulder a friendly chuck. “Let me know if you need anything today.”
“I will.”
It’ll be okay. The email will get here by four.
But what if it doesn’t?
Well, there was nothing he could do about it either way at the moment.
After filling his coffee mug, he took it to his desk and turned his attention to the computer screen.
He had some time. He needed to make sure he was caught up on his other projects or else Claire might think something was wrong and take more careful note of what he was doing today.
But even as he started his work, he wondered what he was going to do when that email from Ivan did arrive—open it or report it?
And, despite how much depended on his answer, he really didn’t know what it would be.
+++
I could hardly believe who lived at that address on North Worthy Drive: Marcus Rockwell, the billionaire entrepreneur who’d started the groundbreaking social networking and web search engine, Krazle, six years ago, when he was only twenty-five.
Krazle’s ads stated that their vision was to create a community where you could find “anything on the web or beyond it,” and based on the company’s meteoric success, they were doing a pretty good job of reaching that goal.