Corfe's eyes widened. "I was never—" he started to protest, but Des gave him a withering look.
"So this Michelle Lang isn't here?" Des said to Finnion.
Finnion's voice rose again. "No, for chrissakes! Why should she be? Who is she, anyway? I never heard of her."
"Then, ah, perhaps you can explain the van?" the Redmond officer who had spoken before invited.
Vanessa stepped forward. "That's easy, officer. It's mine. I drove it here."
Corfe shook his head wildly. "That's not true. I've had it since—" Des quieted him with a wave.
"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you telling me that—"
"But I borrowed it from—"
"Mr. Corfe, are you the registered owner of that van?"
"Well, no, not exactly. That is, not legally, but . . ."
Des turned to Vanessa. "You are who, ma'am?"
"Vanessa Heber. The van belongs to my husband and me. Mr. Corfe is employed by my husband's company, and yes, it's true that he does use it sometimes. Eric—my husband—gave him a job out of . . . loyalty, I suppose you could say." She hesitated, as if uncomfortable at what needed to be said. "As Mr. Finnion says, he sometimes tends to . . . 'do things' like this."
Corfe looked wildly from one policeman to the other. "She's lying. They're both lying. . . . I—"
"Shuddup! . . . Thank you. . . . Mrs. Heber, so the van is yours, registered in your name?"
"Yes. . . . Well, Eric's to be precise."
"And you are not reporting it as stolen?"
"Of course not."
"So you don't know anything about this Michelle Lang being taken from it?"
"That's ridiculous."
"Do you know who this Michelle Lang is, Mrs. Heber?"
"Yes, I've met her once or twice. She's a lawyer who works for a corporation that we're considering entering into a joint venture with."
"Do you know of any reason why she should be missing?"
Vanessa bit her lip for a second. "I can only suggest that it's probably a personal matter of Mr. Corfe's," she replied.
"You bitch!" Corfe breathed, unable to contain himself.
Des's mouth clamped tight. "Thanks," he said to Finnion and Vanessa. "I don't think we need detain you people any longer. Take care, Andy. Mrs. Heber. Enjoy what's left of the weekend, eh?" He cut Corfe off with a curt sweep of his arm before Corfe could say anything more, and motioned him out of the building. The two Redmond officers nodded at Finnion and Vanessa, and moved to follow. Corfe knew an expression that had reached boiling point when he saw one, and didn't argue.
"Mr. Corfe, you do realize that willfully diverting the police from their duties is an offense," Des began as soon as they were outside. "Now, we do have your complaint on file. If you have anything to add to it, let us know. In the meantime, we've done all we can. If you wish, we'll take you back to the station and put you down at the door there."
Corfe acknowledged defeat with a tired nod and thrust his hands into his pockets. Trying to continue this would be more likely to get him arrested than achieve anything useful. As they walked back to the two police cruisers, Corfe toyed with the keys in his pocket. Two sets of keys: his own keys; a set of spares from Eric, for the van. The van was still there, around the back of the building. He still didn't know what to do about Michelle, but whatever he decided, he needed to remain mobile. In any case, dammit, he'd borrowed the van legitimately. He wasn't about to walk back to Tacoma, or catch a bus. Let Vanessa try explaining it to Eric on Monday. Eric would know a lot more by that time than he did right now. Corfe would make sure of that.
"It's all right, I don't need a ride," he said, mustering an offended look. "I'll get myself back. Just call me a cab, will you?"
"As you wish, Mr. Corfe." Des didn't seem inclined to argue either. He passed the request to the local officers, who put out a call.
"There's a Brown-and-White on its way," one of them reported. "It'll meet us at the 520 intersection in ten minutes."
To protect and serve. You have a nice day too, officers, Corfe thought sourly to himself.
Ironside reached the house, stalked by a baffled and bemused tabby cat from the next house along the lakeside. It had occurred to Kevin that he might be able to communicate to Harriet to get a message to somebody, but her car was not there. Okay, then, he decided, back to Plan A.
There was a flap in the bottom of the workshop-lab door for Batcat to get in and out—although why it was needed Kevin had never really understood, because cats could get from one side of a wall to the other by osmosis. Kevin let himself in and, improvising a handy strip of timber as a ramp, crawled up it to undo the door latch from the inside.
Next, he hauled two aluminum strips down from a rack and positioned them as rails sloping up from the floor to the top of the bench where he had left the KJ-3—the model plane that he and Taki had added "manual" controls to. He climbed via one of the rails to the bench top and began his preparations by checking the plane's tank and topping it up from a can of fuel on the shelf above. Next, he cut several feet of nylon cord from one of a row of reels dispensing wire and other sundries, mounted on the wall at the back of the bench.
He attached the ends of the cord to the tail of the KJ-3, pushed the plane across the bench to the rails that he had positioned, and carefully paid out the line to lower it nose-first to the floor. He followed it down, detached the cord, and wheeled the aircraft out through the doorway to the rear yard. So far, so good, he thought.
By now, he could feel Ironside getting low on charge. Should he play safe but lose time by stopping now to replenish? There wasn't much more to do here, and when he finished, Ironside's part in his plan would be over. There was no way the KJ-3 would lift Ironside's weight. He decided to press on and risk it.
Going back inside, he climbed via a box to a stool, and from there up onto the other bench to get to where the mecs were kept. He selected Lancelot, one of the small battlemecs, to fly the plane. But that on its own wouldn't be enough. He needed to take a more substantial one along too, but not too heavy for the plane to carry. He settled on Dreadnought, an intermediate four times bigger than Lancelot but only a quarter the height of Ironside. And he had no choice but to hope that his judgment was good: Seconds after he released Dreadnought from its restraining clip, Ironside ground to a halt, its charge exhausted. Kevin now had to get the other two mecs outside to the plane. Two separate trips weren't necessary. Coupling through to Dreadnought, he picked up the inert form of Lancelot, tucked it under his arm, and hopped and jumped back down to the floor and out the door.
The next part was going to call for a little neurocoupled channel-juggling. He carried the small mec over to the plane and pushed it into the cabin. Then he switched channels to "become" Lancelot, clambered behind the controls, pulled the rubber band that he and Taki had rigged as a seat harness securely over himself. A mec the size of Lancelot was necessary as the pilot: Dreadnought wouldn't have fitted in the seat or been able to work the controls, which were built to a smaller scale. But Lancelot had no way of starting the motor, which needed an external flip of the propeller. That was why Dreadnought was needed too.
Switching back into Dreadnought, Kevin walked around to the front of the plane and reached up with both arms to grasp one of the blades. . . . And something sent him sprawling face down in the dirt.
He rolled over and looked up, bewildered. A head the size of a car was staring down at him, its mouth gaping and showing saber fangs. Next-door's tabby was still there. . . . Kevin sat up, started to rise, and a giant paw knocked him flat again. This could go on for hours, he realized fearfully.
Then a low, menacing growl came from the direction of the house. Kevin turned his head. Batcat had come out of the lab door and was contending its territory. The tabby backed and turned to face the new threat. Kevin scrambled to his feet, reached up again, and jerked the airscrew. It kicked, the engine coughed, but nothing happened. A quick change back to being Lancelot at the control
s, an adjustment of the fuel line; then he was Dreadnought outside once more. Another try. . . .
A splutter . . . dying, then recovery. And the motor burst into a roar.
Quickly, switch back to being Lancelot. Hold the controls in that position, tight on the brake. Freeze!
Dreadnought again. Run back to the cabin, step up on the wheel, clamber aboard. Squeeze into the niche behind Lancelot's seat—between the wings, preserving balance.
And then Lancelot yet again, one last time. Brake off, open throttle. Moving. . . . Picking up speed, getting bumpy. Hold that stick. Glimpse of the tabby streaking away between trees. Ease the stick back, gently. . . . Liftoff!
A tree opened out ahead. Kevin banked, made a climbing turn over the water, and came back with the house sailing by below. Harriet's car was just turning into the driveway.
Stage One accomplished, Kevin told himself. But it was still just a start. The KJ-3 didn't have the range to make it all the way to Neurodyne. And even if it could, there would be a dead zone where the mecs were out of range of the locally boosted signals from the house, but not yet close enough to the direct transmission from the lab. The only way, then, would be to hitch a ride.
He came around onto a course following the road eastward, in the direction of the I-5 Interstate leading to Tacoma.
"I've changed my mind. Can we go back, please?" Corfe said to the cab driver. They had gone about a mile, and both the police cars were out of sight.
"Pardon?"
"Can we turn around? I want to go back to Microbotics."
The driver shrugged, exited at the 405 intersection and crossed over 520 to take the approach ramp back. Just as they rejoined the eastbound lane, the phone in Corfe's jacket pocket beeped. It was Eric.
"Doug, what's going on back there with Kevin? Do you know what he's up to?"
The question took Corfe by surprise. "What? Er, I'm not sure what you mean. What about Kevin? What's happened?"
"He's at the firm, and in some kind of trouble. Where are you now?"
"I'm in the city," Corfe answered vaguely. "What do you mean, some kind of trouble?"
"I'm not sure. But he's been operating a mec somehow that's appeared in the car here, and doesn't seem able to decouple from the system for some reason. He's insisting that I come back, so I've canceled out from the conference and am on my way. But now he isn't responding at all, and I'm worried. Can you get down there and see what's going on?"
Corfe was too confused to want to get into complicated questions and answers just at that instant. He needed time to think. "Sure. . . ." he mumbled. "Sure, Eric, I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks very much, Doug. Sorry to impose, and all that. But I'm sure you understand. Call me back when you know anything, will you? Otherwise I'll call you again when I'm a bit closer."
"Sure," Corfe said again. Eric hung up.
Corfe's apprehension increased. He was still not even back at Microbotics, and when he got there he might not find it so easy to pick up the van. If he was spotted, there could be arguments, all kinds of trouble. Come to that, the van might not even be there. There was no guaranteeing that he would be able to get back to Tacoma before Eric at all. But if Kevin was in trouble, they couldn't just leave him for hours. He racked his mind, thinking. . . . There was another possibility, he realized. He took the phone from his coat pocket again and called Hiroyuki's house. Nakisha answered.
"Hi, this is Doug Corfe. Is Taki there?"
"Hello, Mr. Corfe. I think my brother just set himself on fire with something. . . . Oh no, he's okay now. One moment. I'll fetch him."
Taki's people could move now, without risk of more delays. And they were close to Tacoma. Of course, there would have to be explanations later. But hell, a lot of explanations were going to be called for anyway.
"Hi, Doug. Taki here. How's it going?" Taki's voice was low, with a hint of apprehension. That was understandable—he knew what was supposed to have been happening at Garsten's today.
"It all went wrong," Corfe said.
"Oh, my God! How?"
"I can't go into details now, but I just talked to Eric. He's on his way back. Kev's in some kind of trouble at the lab. I don't understand what, exactly, but it seems he can't decouple from the machine. I don't know for sure when I'm going to be able to get back. Can you get Ohira over there and check the situation? Eric's worried."
"This is terrible," Taki gasped. "But if I ask Ohira, he's going to have all kinds of questions. How much can I tell him?"
"Anything he wants to know," Corfe said tiredly. "The whole thing's going to come out now, anyhow."
"Are Payne's people on their way there too?" Taki asked. "Do they know about Kevin?"
Corfe hadn't thought of that. He didn't immediately see how they could—but then, his faculties hadn't exactly been working at their best for the last hour or more. Vanessa knew that the van had been involved. Anything was possible. "I don't know. Maybe. They could, I guess," he replied.
"I'll see what I can do," Taki promised. "Shall I call you on your personal number when I know something?"
"I might be in an awkward situation. Best if you wait for me to call you."
"Check. Will do. Operation Intercept-Bad-Guys signing out."
Corfe told the cabbie to drop him off a hundred yards from Microbotics, and walked the remaining distance. Keeping well to the side of the front parking area, he followed the fence past the main building to the rear. The van was still there, although both Garsten's Cadillac and the black Lincoln were gone. To his mild surprise the rear parking area was deserted, and nobody appeared when he got into the van and started the motor. He backed out from the slot and drove out through the side gate without interference. His first priority was to put a respectable amount of distance between himself and Microbotics.
Which way to go then? He wasn't sure. But the absence of the two cars told him with reasonable certainty that Michelle was no longer out here. With Ohira mobilized in Tacoma, Corfe could get back to trying to get a lead on where Payne's people had taken her. And now that he had the van back with its equipment for linking to mecs, he no longer needed the help of the police to accomplish that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The two cars headed west along the Evergreen Point Bridge, back in the direction of Seattle. Michelle had no idea where they were heading now. She was in the back of the Lincoln, one of her two inseparable shadows next to her and the other in the passenger seat up front, both as communicative as crash dummies. The red-headed man called Kyle was driving. Finnion was with Garsten and Vanessa in Garsten's Cadillac ahead. At least that way they didn't have to deal with her questions and protests, Michelle supposed. Not that she was any longer of a mood to sustain much in the way of protest. She had been running on tension since the previous day, and after the calamity at Garsten's had gone into a state of nervous collapse that left her numbed and exhausted. To make it worse, she had lost her one means of possible contact through which she might have made her whereabouts known: Vanessa had taken not only the phone from Michelle's purse but also the mec that had been in her coat pocket—although by that time it had ceased being active. Vanessa had made no attempt to disguise it as a casual search; she had obviously known the mec was there—maybe from spotting it in one of its sorties to try and follow what was going on. That meant that she would very quickly have deduced who was operating it, and very likely, Michelle imagined, where from. What those facts in turn portended, she wasn't sure.
As to questions, she still had plenty of those in her head if not the energy to direct them at anyone just at the moment—which would have been pointless in any case. Principal among them was to know just what was going on. For it was plain that everyone around her was overreacting—overreacting, that is, to the facts of the situation as far as Michelle was aware of it. Even if there were condemnatory evidence to be found in Garsten's office, Corfe and Michelle hadn't found it—and nobody, strangely, had gone to any great lengths to establish if they h
ad, nor what they had been looking for. In any case it would have posed little threat as things had turned out, because, as Garsten would be fully aware, nothing obtained in such a way could have been used in any prosecution. Its only use would have been in furnishing proof to warn Eric, as had been the intention. So, with the law fully on their side, all that Garsten and his associates had needed to do was have Michelle arrested and file charges against her and Corfe for trespass, technical illegal entry, attempted theft of information, and a list of other things that could hardly be contested and would probably put an end to both Michelle's and Corfe's careers. Instead, they had already laid themselves open to charges of assault and abduction, perjured themselves to avoid involving the police, and were now evacuating in panic. The only conclusion to be drawn was that a lot more was going on than Michelle knew about. As much as she thought in the drive from Redmond, she had been unable to form any guesses as to what. Now she was too exhausted to think.
* * * G
Corfe called Eric from a roadside pull-off at the last intersection on 520 heading west before the east shore of Lake Washington. The whole story would obviously have to come out now, and it seemed to him that delaying it could only make things worse. He told Eric about the suspicions concerning Vanessa and his plan with Michelle and Kevin to seek evidence in Garsten's office in order to avoid having to bring anything to Eric's attention until they were sure. But they'd blown it, Michelle had been seized, and now Corfe didn't even know where she was. Kevin ought to have been okay since he was back at Neurodyne and away from it all, but after Eric's call Corfe had mobilized Ohira to get over there and check out the situation. Corfe had tried to get help from the police but managed to blow that too. Corfe was sorry to have to dump it on Eric like this. That was the way it was. He realized as he finished speaking that his motive had been a confession in need of absolution, as much as anything.
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