“What?”
“Foreign born Irish, Jake. We got connections. We can handle this.”
Jake stopped pacing. “What, are you and Mick and Fumbles out there”—he pointed to the front door—“going to fight some global artificial intelligence? It’s probably staring down at us from space right now, eyeballing us from some freakin’ satellite.”
“This thing isn’t God, Jake. It can’t have all the angles covered.” Eamon scowled at the FBI card in Jake’s hand. “I don’t know if it’s smart to get in touch with people who are already hunting for you.” His shoulders sagged. “I’m trying, Jake. I’m sorry about everything. The guys, they didn’t know—”
“I know.” Jake’s face softened. “Look, you can help by taking Elle up north into Canada.” Jake fended off objections from Elle. “Kahnawake has more ex-Rangers and Special Forces marines than Fort Bragg. Get up there and keep her safe.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get in touch with this guy. I’ll use the voice scrambler Dean gave me. Arrange a meeting somewhere public. Make a deal. I’ve met him. I know his face.”
“What kind of deal?” Elle asked.
“We have the Vidal Viegas death certificate, we have a copy of the Bluebridge core and the trading algorithms. I know this FBI guy will want all of that.”
“I’m not going north,” Elle said quietly.
“Baby, it’s too dangerous, you can’t come with me—”
“I’m staying here. You go meet that agent, but I’m staying here until we find Anna.”
“Elle, you can’t stay here. What are you going to do?”
“I’m with Elle.” Eamon walked up beside her, put a hand on her shoulder. “This is our town, Jake, we grew up here. If anyone can find Anna, maybe me and the guys can.”
Jake closed his eyes, gritted his teeth. “I can’t risk losing you, Elle. I’ll get her back, I’ll make a deal.”
“I can’t abandon Anna,” Elle whispered. She gripped Eamon’s hand on her shoulder.
Jake stared at his wife. Exhaled. It wasn’t an argument he could win. “But we need to leave this motel. It knows we’re here. The longer we wait, the more we’re sitting ducks.” All this time, he’d been back on his heels, reacting. It was time to fight back. “And if I end up playing into its hands, then we’re no worse off.” Jake looked into Elle’s eyes. “If I disappear, give them everything. Do anything it takes to get Anna back.”
He turned to his brother. “I’m trusting you, Eamon.” The words came surprisingly easily.
Eamon’s jaw muscles rippled. “I got this, little brother.” His eyes glistened. “I got this.”
“Maybe you’re thinking the wrong way,” Elle said, breaking the moment between the brothers.
Jake turned to her. “How so?”
“This thing wants money, right? That’s what you said it was programmed for?”
“That’s what Max said.”
“So hit it where it hurts. Take its money away.”
“What do you mean?”
Of all of them, Elle was by far the smartest. She often had insights that Jake had a hard time seeing. He’d learned long ago to listen to her instincts.
“I don’t know.” Elle rocked back and forth. “I’m just saying, that’s what is at the root of this. Money.”
“Maybe,” Jake admitted, “and maybe this FBI guy can help us with that.”
Eamon peered back through the curtains. “Come on, we gotta go.”
AUGUST 24th
Wednesday
33
Downtown Albany
“Agent Tolliver,” said a clipped, electronic voice. “I have information for you.”
“Who is this?” Agent Tolliver replied.
“Do you have an encrypted line you can call me from?” said the electronic voice.
A pause. “Yes. What number should I call?”
Jake cleared his throat and looked around. The closest person was a hundred feet away, entering a convenience store. He was on a small side street, at the end of Main St. in downtown Albany. He held the voice changer, a small electronic device Dean had given him, up to his mouth.
Jake found it ironic that to evade a machine, he had to sound like one. Speaking one digit at a time, he gave the agent the number for a new VOIP phone Dean sent down the night before. He hung up the receiver of the payphone and slipped the voice changer into his pocket. Glancing around again, he made sure nobody was watching. Nobody was. He crossed the street to a small park, his hand on the phone in his pocket, waiting for the return call.
The trees around the park swayed. A storm was coming.
The day before, they’d driven all over Schenectady and Albany—ducking into buildings, switching cars, splitting up, doing anything they could to lose a possible tail. Jake had a hard time believing they could evade whatever or whoever was following them, but at least they’d made it difficult. They spent the night in the car, on the run, ditched all of their possessions. All except for the phone. Elle wouldn’t part with it, no matter what.
Every two hours, a new five-second video clip of Anna was sent. Playing with toys, smiling at the camera. Later in the night, they were images of her asleep on a cot. Elle clutched the phone in her hand, wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. Each time it vibrated, signaling a new message, she started sobbing, and then she’d play the new video clip over and over. All Jake could do was sit beside her and hold her tight.
In the small hours of the morning, Jake said goodbye to Elle. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he knew it would be best—and least dangerous—for them to split up.
Dean had someone come down to bring them new electronic communication gear. More security-hardened, with stricter instructions. Jake had a protocol to follow when Special Agent Tolliver called him back.
The situation up in Kahnawake was degrading fast. The Canadian authorities had stepped up the pressure, insisting that an audit team be allowed to inspect the Mohawks’ gambling operation. A thinly disguised tactic. The Mohawks refused entry to any outside police forces or inspectors. Dean didn’t think it would escalate, but that could change. Especially if Bluebridge suspected that Dean was the one holding its critical data.
Jake sat on a bench in the park. His phone rang and he picked up.
“Who is this?” Agent Tolliver demanded on the other end.
Jake hesitated, his finger hovering over the ‘cancel’ button. He either had to take the plunge or go it alone. He didn’t trust Tolliver—he didn’t trust anyone besides his family members—and he couldn’t be sure this was even Tolliver. But he had to do something, take some chances. “Jake O’Connell,” he finally said.
A pause on the other end. “What can I do for you, Mr. O’Connell?”
“Why did you come to my house that day?”
“I told you,” Special Agent Tolliver said. “I’ve been investigating Bluebridge.”
“For what?”
“Irregularities.” Another pause. “I believe you are being targeted by Bluebridge, Jake. If you have any information to share, now would be the time. And you should be careful of letting yourself fall into the hands of any authorities right now.”
Jake nodded. It was time to go through some security questions. “What did you give me at the house that day?” he asked.
Agent Tolliver didn’t hesitate. “A business card.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“And what did my brother give you?”
This time there was a pause of a few seconds. “The finger, I believe.”
It had to be the guy who’d been at Jake’s door. There was no way any camera or recording device could have picked up on such minor details, but Jake needed something else. Something more convincing. “Tell me why you’re really investigating Bluebridge.”
The Agent cleared his throat. “Because I think Vidal Viegas has been dead for over a year.”
▲▼▲
“Well, this is a surprise,” said his dad, taking a step back.
“Sorry, I need to—”
“You don’t need to explain.” His father took another step back, holding a knife in one hand. It took Jake a few seconds to see the piece of half-buttered toast in the other. He motioned for Jake to come inside.
Jake stepped into his old house. He hadn’t expected his father to be there.
“The police came by earlier,” his father said, matter-of-factly. “Old Ralston, you remember him?”
Jake nodded. Of course he remembered Ralston.
His father had aged—his hair thinner, whiter, than Jake remembered, and the creases in his face deeper. But his father’s eyes were still the same. Though it had to be shocking for him to see Jake outside his back porch door in the middle of the night, his eyes didn’t register any surprise. Calm. Collected. He looked about as surprised as if Jake had left twenty minutes ago to get milk, and was rapping on the door to come back in.
But it hadn’t been twenty minutes.
Jake had left this old man’s life twenty years ago. He’d only been back to this house a few times since moving out, and his father had never been home.
“Sit down,” his father said, turning to finish buttering the toast. When Jake didn’t move from the doorway, he added, “Or stand, same to me. You want a drink?”
“You have any whiskey?” A silly question, like asking the Pope if he was Catholic.
His father nodded, taking a bite from his toast, and shuffled into the kitchen. Jake noticed that. The shuffling was new. Jake did a mental calculation. His father was sixty-eight this year.
Jake glanced around.
The house had barely changed.
Thirty years his parents had been renting this place, and it was a dump from the start. On the dining table, a cigarette-rolling machine balanced on top of a scattered stack of unopened mail, next to an ashtray overflowing with butts. He noticed the ceiling was stained yellow, then realized it had to be from cigarette smoke. The smell of stale beer and neglect brought memories rushing into Jake’s head.
Bad memories.
“Your mother’s in the lounge,” Jake’s dad grunted. He leaned over, opened the cupboard doors under the sink.
Jake nodded and took two steps forward, craning his neck to look around the corner. The lounge. A fancy word for a television room. Some murder mystery played on the TV.
To be honest, the room wasn’t even about the television. A half-full glass sat beside his mother’s liver-spotted hand. He didn’t have to guess what it was. Vodka tonic. That’s all she ever drank. He saw the back of her head, her gray roots showing under a blossom of red coloring still hanging onto the tips. She was in her favorite recliner.
“Flo, Jake’s here,” his father called out, his hands in the cupboard above the sink. “Flo?”
No response.
Jake’s father returned to the dining table with two chipped tumblers and a bottle of Wild Turkey. He pushed the stack of unopened mail aside. “Your mother’s asleep.”
Asleep.
Passed out.
Same thing, in Jake’s family.
Jake nodded and sat at the dining table. His father shrugged and opened the bottle of whiskey. Poured them each two fingers.
Where did psychopath conmen go when they got old? Home, seemed to be the answer.
Jake’s dad lifted his glass. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Me either.” Jake lifted his glass and grudgingly clinked it with his dad’s.
They both took a drink.
Jake wondered for the hundredth time why his parents had stayed together. The marriage was a sham, a mess. Jake usually chalked it up to them having no one else—but all these years later he found he had a grudging respect that they’d managed to stick it out.
Why had Jake come here? He wasn’t entirely sure. It was dangerous, an obvious place for someone to look for him. Jake had driven by a few times, his head down, and looked around. An hour ago he’d been tossing and turning in a cheap motel bed. Some instinct had pulled him out of bed, sent him out into the night.
But maybe this had been a mistake.
“You know, Jake, I’m sorry for everything that happened. I wasn’t a good father. I know that. What happened that night”—his dad paused to finish his drink—“that was terrible. I was drunk. I’m sorry.”
Jake stared at his dad. I almost froze to death. You almost killed me. But it was the first time his father had apologized, the first time he’d even acknowledged it. Still, he knew his dad’s words were just that—words, not something he felt.
“I didn’t come here for an apology. I wanted to say goodbye to Mom.”
He thought about telling his father that Anna had been kidnapped, but he couldn’t stomach it. Couldn’t stand the thought of watching the empty black pools of his father’s eyes, the awkward pause while the mind behind those eyes tried to think of what to say, how to react.
“Goodbye?” Jake’s dad took a drink, the creases in his face deepening. “You want to say goodbye? Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.” Jake had arranged to meet Agent Tolliver the next day, but he wasn’t going to tell his dad that. “Just…away.”
One way or the other, Jake’s chances weren’t good. He’d picked the most public place he could think of, Rockefeller Center. He would be going alone. Eamon and Elle were searching for Anna, but nothing so far. They’d even asked Joey Barbara’s people if they knew anything, but they’d denied any involvement.
“I’m glad you showed up.” Jake’s dad nodded. “I know I’ve been a terrible father, but I’m proud of you.”
Again, just words.
If someone asked him, Jake would say he didn’t care what his father said. Not now. Not ever. But deep down, in some valley in his soul…the words felt nice to hear. The most painful thing was to be ignored, which was what his dad had always done to him. Funny that his dad would say those words now, when Jake was indicted for fraud, wanted for rape and murder.
“I mean the way you got yourself a Wall Street job,” his father clarified. He picked up the Wild Turkey. “You want some more?” he asked as he poured another few fingers into his own glass.
“No thanks.”
Even now, Jake’s father’s eyes were calculating, looking for the angles. The police had an arrest warrant for Jake for fraud—maybe there was some way to get some of Jake’s cash? Or, maybe he could turn Jake in, call the cops, get into the morning papers? There had to be a reward, right?
“I could help you,” his father said.
Here it comes. Jake rolled his eyes and finished his drink. “And how could you help me?”
Jake’s father shrugged. “Not sure. You might be able to use an old conman like me, one way or another. The world might be all computers and webs now”—he waved his drink in the air—“but in the end, it’s still people, and people trust people.” He took another sip of his drink. “I’m good with people. You know that.”
Good at fooling them, stealing from them. But this was beyond what a small-time grifter could imagine or manage. “I don’t think so.”
“You remember when we sold those Bibles?” his dad asked.
“I remember.” Jake shook his head and looked down at the table. Smiled.
He’d forgotten about that, or tried to forget. When he was about ten years old, somehow his dad had gotten his hands on a shipment of Bibles that had been printed wrong. The printer had only inked one side of each page. Thousands of them bound up like that, with only one side of each page printed.
Jake’s dad slapped the table. He liked a good laugh. “That was a great idea, no?”
Junk, that’s what most people would have thought of those Bibles. But not Jake’s dad. To him, it was a goldmine.
Jake’s dad had dumped the whole pile of them in their backyard, covered them with a tarp. He and Ja
ke had gone door to door, selling them as ‘Bible workbooks’—you read one page, then did your best to fill in the next blank page.
It was a test for the truly faithful, his dad had explained. Over and over. To anyone in the neighborhood who would listen.
They’d made a bundle.
Jake looked up from the table and into his dad’s eyes. That was his dad. No gray clouds, only silver linings. Jake was sure his dad qualified as a three-quarter-Ted psychopath, but he wasn’t a violent one. Maybe Jake had to look at the silver linings, too. He put his drink down. “I’m going to say bye to Mom, okay?”
His father nodded. “You remember, this old man’s got some tricks up his sleeve. You call me if you need me.”
Jake stood. Need him? He’d never needed his father, but Jake knew that was a lie even as he tried to sell it to himself. He shook his dad’s proffered hand. “Goodbye, Conor.”
Jake always used his father’s name. Conor. The locals called him Puddy, but Jake never used this nickname, and never called him Dad either.
“Goodbye, son.”
They let go of their handshake, but didn’t embrace.
“You remember what O’Connell, means, you hear me?”
Jake nodded. Strong like a wolf was its Gaelic meaning. “I know.” It was the one thing his dad had drilled into his head when he was a kid.
Conor pointed a shaking old finger at Jake. “I named you after your granddad, you know. That old bastard never went down without a fight. You won’t either, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Jake replied.
Pinned to the side of a kitchen cupboard, right next to Jake, were some postcards. Jake recognized them. Taking a closer look, he noticed there was a stack of them, dog eared, and stuck onto a nail in the side of the cabinet. The post cards he used to send to his mother on his travels.
She’d kept them all. It was the first time he’d noticed.
Walking into the lounge, Jake grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. The house fell silent. Leaning down, he kissed his mother’s forehead. “Goodbye, Mom.”
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