by J. K. Scott
I was relieved to have the two memory sticks as well as confirmation that the SD card had been copied. I knew that if the SD card had been reformatted, it could erase data on the card. I couldn’t wait to inspect the images again.
Back at the hotel, I debated the high risk of opening the images on my new computer. It had been one of the longest and most difficult days of my life. I decided to confirm the images to determine if Trevor had played me. Cautiously, I used the hotel computer to access the file. Relieved the file did not require a log-in, I opened it and stared at the list of eight images—six more than I’d seen at Cascade. I opened the first image and watched the pixels fill the screen in a chaotic order, noting the file had an unusual pixel load. The images were unlike commercial photographs.
My mouth dropped when I saw the timer. Immediately, I closed the image file in a panic, hoping it would not be erased. The form I’d seen on the computer screen had far more clarity than Cascade’s images. Shocked by the revelation, I called Ronzo and left a cryptic message that I was vacating the hotel. I had to work on the images on my home computer. I realized the police had received a compromised SD card and passed it to Cascade. Or Trevor had only retained three images on the SD card, or they’d been accidentally deleted. Or Cascade could have held back the number of available images from me.
I took a risk using the hotel computer and decided to leave for my cabin and call Ronzo, but I needed to work on my encrypted computer with a larger screen and felt uncomfortable on the mil-spec computer with its mandatory procedures. It was already late in the evening, and I assumed Cascade had already searched my departed father’s vacant adobe cabin listed in my file. My cabin was in Goldfield Ranch, ten miles from my father’s address. My secure, off-the-grid cabin, bordered by Tonto National Forest, was purposely listed under Ronzo’s corporate shell name.
I drove along the Shea Corridor and mulled over my questions. I assumed Trevor or the electronics store had copies of the images—or maybe not. How many others had seen the images, whether distorted or clear? Did Cascade know the images were incomplete? Had Cascade used video to create a holographic shadow in my room to scare me?
John Wheeler’s actions also confused me. Why would he tell me about the alarming report unless he believed I’d be held against my will at Cascade or believed I needed the freedom to continue my work on my own? Unanswered questions kept me guessing.
Driving north on Route 87, I pulled over at a gas station to see if I was being followed. I called Anthony and updated him. He assured me their host server on the dark web would encrypt and secure the data on the memory sticks. The call lasted a minute, and for the second time, I forgot to ask for any updates on Wheeler. I had to get off the line anyway. CALEA, the Communications Assistance for Law Enforcement Act, had expanded since its inception in 1994. Enforcement had to have a warrant to ping the location of my burner phone but I wasn’t wanted by the law yet.
Miles later, I turned onto a dark desert road full of potholes. Alert for any suspicious activity, I turned onto a gravel road and passed my modest one-story adobe cabin on a five-acre parcel. Many of the ranch homes were dark due to being vacated during the hot summer. I turned off the jeep’s lights on the familiar drive to a ten-acre horse ranch on the west side of my property. I parked next to a horse trailer and other vehicles. I took the computer bag, leaving the suitcase. I looked around for any flickering lights. I could barely see my cabin because of the cloudy dark skies that smelled like rain.
I trudged over scrub and desert rocks to an ocotillo tree next to sagebrush inside my property line. I pushed back the dried sage that concealed a combo-locked metal cover. I opened the hinged cover, backed down a few ladder steps, and secured the lid before reaching the ground. I coded the keypad on a six-foot steel door that opened to a hundred-yard tunnel. The hydro light worked, and it guided me through the lengthy tunnel to my basement stairwell.
I traipsed through the hot tunnel as sweat seeped from my skin, drenching my clothes. I deeply missed and appreciated my father’s forbearance. He’d insisted on building this tunnel because of my clandestine work, which he’d vehemently believed had compromised my life.
I unlocked the six-foot steel door and entered the stairwell closet that opened to the two-bedroom cabin. Sweating profusely, I stood in the closet and listened for any sound. After several moments, I stepped into the hallway with the hydro light dimmed and noted that the top staircase door that opened to the great room and kitchen was closed. I inspected the dual master bedrooms with the shared bathroom for any disturbances. The underground rooms were clear.
With a dim light, I crept up the staircase and cracked the door. I inhaled the faint odor of cedar paneling. I turned on the hydro light, entered the great room and kitchen, and inspected the bath and laundry rooms before activating the stored solar energy. Confident my cabin hadn’t been invaded. I inspected the closed metallic window coverings that blocked light before turning on the electrical grid to light the room.
In the kitchen, I placed the computer bag on the island counter and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I took a deep chug and ambled over to my brown leather chair. Exhausted, I released a deep sigh and gazed around at the room’s comfortable couches and lounge chair. The gentle breeze from the solar air conditioner hummed. Too tired to move a muscle, I stared at the black iron-bellied solar stove that added warmth in the light winters.
Along the south wall, the computer desk appeared ominous in the light. I leaned back in my chair and gazed up at the skylight, thankful it was still closed. I shut my eyes for a moment and felt tension subside. I couldn’t recall ever being so tired. Twenty-four hours had passed since the warning message.
Bending over to remove my shoes, I glanced at the books stacked on the round cedar table. Under the glass top, a large red sunset-covered book stared back at me. It had been a gift from my father, and I’d read every page. The ancient stories about catastrophes caused by the Destroyer, or the Frightener, authored by the Phoenicians and Celtics, fascinated me. The manuscripts had surfaced in the tenth or eleventh century in a Scottish monastery. They hadn’t become publicly available until the 1990s. I stared at the book, wondering if it could be connected to the digital images. At that point, every thought and book turned into a suspicion.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I heard a familiar crunching sound around the cabin. I sprang from the chair, leaped to the counter, and fumbled for the memory sticks in the backpack. Quickly, I accessed my cabin computer to save the images in a file. Then I copied the file to Ronzo’s secure server, wondering if I should have endured the protocols of the mil-spec computer.
The desert echoed the slightest movement. I rationalized that the crunching gravel came from a prowling coyote, bobcat, or wild mustang on the grounds. To be sure, I checked the laundry room and armed myself with the Grim Reaper revolver (GRR). I inserted the one-hundred pinprick cartridge that temporarily paralyzed a target into a catatonic state for up to ten minutes. That would be enough time to garner control in a difficult situation. Multiple pinpricks would lead to an overdose, and the target wouldn’t survive. Highly illegal, the Grim Reaper was the most effective deterrent if I had time to aim.
Clutching the Reaper, I slowly milled around, listening for faint sounds near the front door and the back laundry door, which led to a detached garage. My rustic jeep, parked in the three-walled garage, indicated someone might be home.
My mind froze, as I thought I heard a thud from downstairs. Immediately, I confirmed the images had been sent to Ronzo. I retrieved the two memory sticks and hid them under the lamp base. I demagnetized my keyed fingerprints and turned off the computer.
I slowly stepped downstairs, holding the Reaper in one hand and the stair railing in the other. I opened the stairwell closet and checked the cabinet that opened to the steel door to the tunnel.
I turned on the lights and inspected the bedroom more carefu
lly, looking at the king-size bed surrounded by desert-sand walls with Arizona landscape paintings. Books were neatly stacked on the black iron lamp tables. Another black potbellied solar pipe stove stood in the corner.
The closet door opened to a dim light. I glanced at the cedar dresser and the neatly hung clothes. The hat rack, filled with baseball caps and cowboy and fishing hats, stared back me. Shoes and boots were haphazardly strewn on the floor as I had tossed them.
After entering the shared bathroom, I peeped inside the snail shower, a luxury that appeared out of place in a rustic cabin. Opening the door to the commode, I glanced inside and decided to take a leak.
I walked into the guest bedroom, where brightly colored blankets covered double beds. Only once, Melanie had seen the guest room with the family photographs of my father, who’d died seven years ago, as well as two photos of my mother, who’d died when I was a toddler.
I heard another faint noise upstairs. I took a deep breath, tightened my grip on the Reaper, and cautiously crawled up the staircase, telling myself I was imagining the noise.
7
AT THE TOP of the staircase, I cracked the door to the great room. Tightly holding the Reaper, I shouted, “Who’s there?” I then yelled, “Hey!” as I faintly heard flute music from the programmed entertainment system. Relieved, I walked over, turned off the system, and froze as I noticed the time flashing at 12:04 am. I felt energy drain from me, as I tried to convince myself that it had to be a coincidence. I stared at the numbers as the time changed to 12:05. The reality that it could be a stark reminder chilled me.
I ambled to the lounge chair and glanced around to see if the shadowy form had returned. I had to overcome my fears before erratic behavior overtook me. After carefully placing the Reaper on the table, I fingered my curly brown hair and scratched my scalp as if it would clear my head. I closed my eyes for a few moments, when two loud knocks blasted me out of my chair. I grabbed the Reaper and slinked to the door, ready to defend myself against an intruder.
I activated the door’s video screen, which lit the porch. My jaw dropped as I stared at Mary standing there. She continued to knock and said, “Dak, it’s Mary.”
I switched the video to infrared and scanned the area for any others. I couldn’t see anyone but still asked, “Are you alone?”
“I’m alone. Honest. I haven’t been followed.”
“Are you being monitored?”
She held up her RAD to show a green light. “Dak, please open the door. My life is in danger too.”
I opened the door, grabbed Mary’s arm, and yanked her inside. After locking the door, I turned and gasped at bloody scratches on Mary’s arms and legs. Mud splattered her black shorts and white T-shirt. Matted strands of hair clung to her face. Mary limped to the kitchen island. Reactively, I hid the Reaper in a cabinet drawer.
Mary asked, “Where’s the bathroom? I fell a few times and need to wash the blood off me.”
I led her to the bathroom in the laundry room and paced outside the door, asking her if she was all right. “Is there anything I can get you?”
She declined all my offers, assuring me she was okay.
Finally, she came out of the bathroom with her scratches cleaned. I handed her a bottle of water and led her to the lounge chair. She let out a sigh.
I waited for her to tell me why she was here.
Rubbing her arm, Mary said, “I’ve walked miles searching for your cabin. I bumped into a few cacti and mud puddles from a monsoon pour. And I had to outsmart the coyote milling around your cabin.”
Overwhelmed by her plight, I asked, “But why are you here?”
“Cascade is searching for you.”
“Do you know why?”
“Cascade claimed you stole classified data.”
“What?” I gasped, leaning forward in my chair.
“Is it true?” Mary asked.
“No. I didn’t steal anything.”
Mary looked relieved.
Frustrated, I asked, “How did you find me?”
“Several months ago, you rented a jeep, and I followed you to Goldfield Ranch. I stayed at a distance but at least knew the vicinity. At that time, I thought it would be of value to know where you lived.”
“Did Cascade send you here?” I asked with sarcasm.
Mary raised her voice. “No. I was desperate. John Wheeler is my brother-in-law, and he’s being held at Cascade. Brutally, I was interrogated for over three hours. Cascade kept asking me about your relationship with John. I knew I had to see you.”
Her words swirled in my mind.
She continued, “Also, Cascade wanted to know where you lived. I gave partially true answers and passed the lie detector test. Thank goodness. Cascade is furious that your personnel file listed a vacant house miles from here.”
I absorbed what she’d said and answered, “I only know John from work.”
“Then why did John help you escape and risk his job?”
“Mary, I don’t know.” I described in detail what happened when I fled Cascade.
Mary crossed her bruised legs and softly moaned. “What was in the report?”
“He didn’t say, but it alarmed him.” I watched Mary rub her legs and said, “Mary, before we continue, you need to attend to your scratches. The shower is downstairs, as well as antiseptics. And in my closet, there are sweatpants and shirts that may be more comfortable than your damp clothes.”
Mary drained her water bottle. “I agree. I still feel cacti needles from my last fall.”
I asked, “Mary, where is your vehicle?”
“I didn’t drive. I taxied to Fort McDowell Casino and then jogged here.”
“Unbelievable,” I said, aware that she had navigated miles in the night desert fraught with hazards and wildlife among horse ranches and secluded homes hidden in the hills to find my cabin. “Come on. I’ll take you downstairs.” I showed her around and asked her if she needed anything else.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, and she nodded.
“I’ll fix something,” I said. “I’m starved.” And I left for the kitchen.
I had a well-stocked cabin filled with jars, boxes, and cans of food. I opened a jar of pasta sauce and dry gnocchi. I couldn’t recall my last meal. While waiting for the water to boil for the gnocchi, I quickly emailed Ronzo to inform them that Mary from Cascade had arrived at the cabin, adding all was good. I avoided the burner phone because of the remote area’s low call volume, which could easily be scanned for voice identity.
Fifteen minutes later, Mary joined me in the kitchen, wearing loosely fitting jogging pants and, I was surprised to see, Melanie’s blue T-shirt. The only time Melanie had stayed at the cabin, she had left her shirt. We’d usually frequented hotels since she’d refused to be vetted to be in Cascade’s town house. If Cascade questioned her, I felt confident she couldn’t direct them to the cabin. We’d arrived at nighttime and left the next evening. Painfully, I understood why Melanie had broken off our relationship. I could never be forthcoming with her.
Mary stood by me as I rinsed the pasta. “Dak, I hope you understand that I’m in deep trouble with Cascade too.”
“I do, but how did you avoid an implant?”
“John negotiated my contract, and I agreed to wear a mobile sensor monitor at all times.” Mary pulled a thumb-sized RAD from a pocket and handed it to me. “When I don’t have a monitor on, I carry a RAD detector like you.”
I pressed my thumb on the circular chip and smiled at the glowing green light, grateful that Ronzo had supplied me with RADs that detected Cascade’s current technology.
I returned the RAD to Mary and said, “Let’s eat.”
I grabbed a few bottles of water, and we sat at the kitchen table and dug into the pasta.
After a few bites, I asked Mary, “How did you know that John was being held at Cascade?”
“Cascade called me for an emergency meeting. I was about to enter the lobby, when Terrel called in a panic, telling me John was in trouble at work. I told her I’d call her back after my meeting. Then I panicked when I saw security waiting for me in the lobby.”
“Mary, I’m sorry. I feel responsible for this mess.”
“Dak, John doesn’t lightly disregard Cascade’s protocols. He risked his career and compromised his family to help you escape. There must have been a serious reason. That’s why I’m here to resolve this mess.”
Surprised, I asked, “First, what do you know?”
Mary explained, “Two days ago, John told me he was concerned about sensitive data found in the desert. He advised me to be on alert for unexpected events. Then, in my interrogation, security drilled me with questions about your behavior that morning at your door. They asked if I thought you were frightened.”
I reactively said, “Their focus is misdirected. What frightened me was that I couldn’t solve the sensitive data.”
I questioned what options we had available; they were few. John had committed serious infractions, and he knew something that compelled him to protect me. Now Mary had risked her job too, and I felt responsible.
We stacked the dishes in the sink and retired to the great room. Settled in my chair, I decided to work with Mary. I said, “Four days ago, I viewed distorted data from an SD camera card found on a dead courier in the desert. I was frustrated that I couldn’t solve the data. Cascade believed I was traumatized over the data.”
Mary asked, “What is the data about?”
“I’m not sure. I couldn’t confirm the forms.”