Refraction

by Christopher Hinz

  “Never hurts to pack a spare RPG. I’ll send you the bill.”

  Michael grimaced. “Yes, do that.”

  Nobe got up and ambled to a shelf by the window. He picked up a drone toy displayed there, a bat-like monster with a quartet of claws. It was from a product line manufactured by a Krame-Tee subsidiary in Taiwan.

  He activated the controller. A faint whirring filled the office as coaxial rotors lifted the bat monster off the shelf.

  “Having fun?” Michael asked.

  “Always. Have you heard from Farlin?”

  “No, why?”

  “I’ve been trying to call him. Can’t get through.”

  “I had trouble with my own phone in that wilderness.”

  Nobe had selected an excellent location for the interrogation and disposal of Green. But such isolated regions did have drawbacks. For Wednesday, they’d be equipped with satellite phones, obviating such concerns. Although Nobe had used a sat to call Michael during the incident with the railfans, he was wary of their overuse. Even though the sats were encrypted, they tended to be scanned more diligently by NSA snoops.

  “Farlin wouldn’t be hanging around out there,” Nobe said, hovering the drone so close to the window that its plastic rotors chattered against the glass. “He should be hundreds of miles away by now.”

  “Maybe he’s out of range of a cell tower.”

  “Maybe.”

  “The fire was discovered?”

  “Local cops found a burned body. No ID yet.”

  “Doesn’t sound like we have a problem. Farlin was only supposed to check in if something went wrong.”

  Michael knew from experience that when it came to missions, Nobe was a perfectionist. Anything out of the ordinary caused him to fret, and he’d fretted up a storm after that unexpected encounter with the railfans. It was a good trait for someone in his profession.

  “You could have told me all this over the phone,” Michael said.

  “I could have. But there’s something else. An itsy bitsy little matter. Thought it best to broach it in person.”

  “If this is about money, let me point out that you and your men are already being paid an obscenely large fee.”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  “What then?”

  Nobe grinned as he guided the drone to a gentle landing on the shelf. “I found your long-lost princess.”

  “Magenta,” Michael whispered. A faint tremble of excitement coursed through him.

  “Her name is Jessica Von Dohren. Lives near North Platte, Nebraska.”

  “How’d you locate her?”

  “One of my sources came through.”

  Michael nodded. The merc had a network of governmental and military contacts rivaling his own. That was impressive, considering Krame-Tee was a major defense contractor with deep roots into Washington.

  “We could fly out there this evening,” Nobe suggested. “She lives all by her lonesome, a ranch house in the middle of nowhere. Won’t even have to set up a snatch. We can do her in the comfort of her own bedroom.”

  Nobe bared his teeth. Michael suspected he entertained his own fantasies for the female quiver kid once the interrogation was complete. Nobe had admired the photo Michael had snapped of Magenta when the two of them had met briefly a decade ago. She’d been drop-dead gorgeous back then. It was doubtful the passage of years had dimmed such extraordinary beauty.

  Michael found it odd but comforting that after years of searching, he’d located three quiver kids in the space of a month. First Blue, then Green. And now Magenta. There was no reason to go after White, who hadn’t received an infusion. That left only the other two girls, Gold and Cyan, in the wind. And the way Michael’s luck was going, he fully expected to locate and eliminate those two in the near future.

  Maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe fate was aligning itself with him in recognition of his soon-to-be remarkable abilities. Perhaps ultra-intelligent beings like himself, who grasped the nuances of power and knew how to groom themselves to wield it, had a direct impact – a godlike impact – upon destiny itself.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk, debating options. A trip to the Midwest would consume a good chunk of time. He had a dinner meeting this evening and afterwards intended to do a final review of Tarantian, make sure no details of the assault plan had been overlooked. Still, he could complete that work on the jet.

  Although it was doubtful Magenta had advanced any farther than the others, Michael wanted to confront her face to face. Only then would he be able to gauge whether she had significant abilities and posed a threat.

  He hadn’t done that with the first quiver kid. Instead he’d sent a shadow to that abandoned London apartment building for Blue’s interrogation. Rodrick Tyler had been a hopeless addict. Even after Nobe had employed the hot needle to put him in the proper frame of mind, the man had provided little useful information. He’d admitted that his adopted parents had revealed to him that he was the quiver kid known as Blue and, like Michael and Aiden Manchester, he’d begun to experience manifestations when puberty kicked in.

  But he hadn’t gone on to develop his abilities. Instead, he’d apparently become fixated on some crazy urge to, in his own words, “penetrate the realm beyond the beasts.” The desire likely was the byproduct of a drug-addled brain. Still, perhaps there was something more to it than Michael’s shadow-self had been able to perceive.

  However potent a shadow, it produced a kind of distancing effect between user and the environment he entered. It was indeed a window but a window that could be blurred, not in a visual sense but in Michael’s ability to accurately discern the more subtle emotional states during a transmission. That’s why he’d decided to confront Green and the rest of the quiver kids in person.

  “Do you have Magenta under surveillance?” he asked.

  Nobe shook his head. “But I can have Vesely and Rosen onsite by evening.”

  “Do it.” Michael hesitated. “Are you sure this won’t compromise preparations for–”

  “Relax, Tarantian is set. No need for any of us to be in Montana this soon.”

  “All right. We’ll pay Magenta a visit. Meet me tonight at the airport. Ten-thirty sharp.”

  Nobe slithered from his chair and ambled toward the exit.

  “And please ask my assistant to step back in.”

  Nobe opened the door and gestured to Trish. As she entered, the merc made a leering face behind her back and mouthed the words too wholesome.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Aiden lobbied for a second crack at Dr Marsdale. But Keats believed that even if the retired professor could be persuaded to divulge more about Tau Nine-One, it wouldn’t help them find the other four quiver kids. Instead, Keats got on the phone and chartered a turboprop to fly them from the nearest airport to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, to see a man named Chef. He refused to say why.

  Before arranging for the flight, Keats had made three other calls from Rory’s trailer. Aiden had been asked to step into the kitchen so Keats could have privacy in the bedroom. However, the walls were thin. By cupping his ear, Aiden was able to garner a few snippets.

  The first call was to someone who went by the name, or codename, of Icy Ned. Keats divulged what he knew about Tau Nine-One and the quiver kids, and asked Icy Ned to look into the matter and forward what he learned to Chef.

  The second call was to Chef himself. But Aiden missed most of that conversation because of Rory’s refrigerator, which had a bad compressor. The unit had come on, and the rattling noise made eavesdropping impossible.

  The fridge shut down in time for Keats’ final call, to his wife Tonya. They’d argued. She wanted Keats to come home. He said he couldn’t until his work was completed. The name Alexandra again surfaced. Aiden gathered that Alexandra was institutionalized because of some psychological malady. Keats wanted Tonya to visit Alexandra while he was gone, but Tonya apparently wasn’t keen on the idea.

  After Keats had finished the calls, Aiden asked to borrow
his phone.

  “I need to get hold of my sister, tell her I’m OK.”

  “Bad idea. Like I said, the mercs might be tapping her phones.”

  “You called your wife.”

  Keats glared at Aiden’s admission that he’d been eavesdropping. “No one knows I’m connected to any of this. My phone’s safe. Can’t say the same for your sister’s.”

  “I thought of a way around that. Darlene has a neighbor who sometimes babysits my niece. She’s a retired cop so she’ll be cool. I’ll get her to deliver my message to Darlene face to face.”

  “There’s still a risk.”

  “I’m not asking.”

  He extended his hand. Keats grudgingly surrendered the phone. “Make it quick. We need to catch that flight.”

  The neighbor was naturally curious when Aiden outlined his odd request. But she was savvy enough not to ask too many questions after he stressed how vital it was to keep things confidential. He passed along the message, doing his best to make it sound reassuring.

  Since the harrowing events of the previous night, he’d come to regret storming out on Darlene in a rage. Although he was still mad at her for keeping the truth from him, he didn’t want her needlessly worrying. The neighbor promised to talk to his sister right away and tell her that Aiden was fine but would be traveling for a few days and be incommunicado.

  They departed for the airport. The drive gave Aiden time to think, which also helped keep his mind off his burned arms. Rory’s homemade pills helped. But the pain was still there, like a constant background noise.

  There was plenty to occupy his thoughts. Unfortunately, little of it was encouraging. On this beautiful Sunday morning he should have been back in Birdsboro, maybe taking Leah to the playground or firing up his old Xbox. Instead, he was in the company of a government assassin, on the run from ruthless mercenaries who wanted him dead.

  He repressed a shudder as the memory of his torture resurfaced. The terror of those moments with Nobe’s flesh-burning needle likely would haunt the rest of his days.

  They pulled into a garage near the airport’s main terminal. Keats parked the Bronco and turned to him.

  “From here on out, things are liable to go from bad to worse. So you have a choice. Board the plane with me, or take my car and head out on your own. If you choose to go on the run you’ll need to lay low, stay off the grid as long as possible. Avoid main roads and urban areas where you’re more likely to be scanned by municipal camera pods or retail security cams. Don’t use plastic. Pay cash for everything and stretch your dollars. They might have to last you a while.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a choice.”

  “It’s not. But I need you to be clear about something. I’m taking down Red, Nobe and the whole lot of them. Best case scenario, we locate another quiver kid and use him or her to set a trap. But if that doesn’t pan out, I might have to go with Plan B.”

  Aiden understood. “Use me as bait.”

  “Once they know you’re still alive, we can draw them in.” Keats paused. “I like you, Aiden. I really do. If things go south, I’d probably even shed a tear at your funeral.”

  “If things go south, I’m guessing we’ll be in matching caskets.”

  Despite his brazen words, Aiden acknowledged a temptation to take the safer course, go underground until this mess was over. Yet he also recognized a feeling that had been growing since setting eyes on his father’s letter. It was the sense of being caught up in forces beyond his control, being swept toward some unknown destiny. He was on a journey, one that was connected in some mysterious way to the nature of quiver – whatever the hell that was. He had the eerie sense that it was a journey he’d been on his entire life.

  He opened the door and hopped from the Bronco.

  “C’mon, Keats, we’re wasting time. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Their Cessna landed at Sioux Falls Regional Airport by midafternoon Sunday. For once, Aiden wasn’t bothered by flying and the fear that he might fall asleep and manifest a chunkie and cause the plane to go into a tailspin. His peculiar brand of aerophobia was no match for recent near-death memories of pain and flame.

  They left the terminal on foot and headed south through an industrial area. A winding two-mile walk brought them to a memorial park. Aiden waited on a bench along a flag-laden circular concourse while Keats approached a man standing beneath a tree.

  Chef was basketball tall, at least six-foot-four, with ruddy skin and a ponytail harnessing black hair streaked with white. He looked a bit younger than Keats, and of Native American descent. Wearing an ivory business suit, he watched Keats’ approach from behind designer sunglasses.

  Aiden was too far away to make out what they were saying. The conversation was brief. Chef lit a fat cigar, put a small object in Keats’ palm and walked off into the trees.

  Keats returned and led them to the parking lot. Aiden probed for information.

  “Chef another old Army buddy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Pretty good cook?”

  “Couldn’t barbecue a decent steak to save his life. He originally got tagged with the name Chief, which he hated – thought it was racist. Punched out a couple SEALs at Fort Bragg who called him that. The incident pissed off some JSOC general who had a bad case of the PCs. The general ordered all concerned to give Chief a new handle. The letter ‘i’ got the boot.”

  The object Chef had given Keats turned out to be a set of keys for another old Ford Bronco, this one a gaudy shade of orange. Keats got behind the wheel and retrieved a briefcase from under the seat. Inside were a Glock semiautomatic pistol in a paddle holster, four fifteen-round magazines and a sheathed combat knife.

  “We came all the way to Sioux Falls just for weapons and OJ’s favorite ride?”

  Keats gave the dashboard an affectionate slap. “Don’t be insulting Broncos. They’re liable to get pissed and throw you. As for the gun and knife, I used to have a laptop for whacking people but it got busted.”

  “How come you didn’t have a gun back at the garage?”

  “I’ve been flying a lot. The TSA being what it is, best not to leave a sidearms contrail. If we have to fly again, I’ll ditch the Glock and make other arrangements.”

  Aiden imagined a string of associates spanning the country, each ready to provide Keats with guns and vintage Broncos.

  The bottom of the briefcase contained a manila envelope.

  “Intel from Icy Ned,” Keats explained, breaking the seal to withdraw a sheet of paper. It was biographical sketch of one Maurice A. Pinsey.

  He was a 79-year-old retired widower living in Iowa. Pinsey was choir director at his Lutheran church as well as fundraising coordinator for the church’s building fund. A long-time volunteer for the United Way, he helped the local senior citizens council serve meals to the homebound. On top of that, he took care of a handicapped daughter.

  “Sounds like genuine salt of the earth,” Aiden said. “What does Pinsey have to do with us?”

  Keats accessed a phone app and took a photo of the printout with the camera. Onscreen, the app transformed the words into a morphing jumble of letters and numbers.

  “Encrypted data,” Keats said. “Icy Ned wrote a program that encodes hidden information into the structure of innocuous sentences. My app has the cipher that unlocks the code.”

  Aiden wanted to know more about the mysterious Icy Ned. But he suspected any inquiries would be rebuffed.

  The screen’s digital metamorphosis ended, revealing the secret part of the message.

  Dr Maurice Pinsey, a biologist by training, is a former Director of Research at Tau Nine-One. He was there during the quiver kids experiment.

  Aiden could barely contain his excitement as Keats flipped the paper over, revealing a satellite map of a small subdivision near Storm Lake, Iowa. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac was circled by a red marker pen. Scrawled at the bottom of the page was the address. Keats programmed it into hi
s phone’s GPS app.

  “Lucky break. Only about a three-hour drive.”

  Aiden fastened his seatbelt. “What are we waiting for?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  The subdivision appeared to be a product of the suburban construction boom of the 1950s. Maurice Pinsey’s two-story home had steep roofs and twin dormer windows. The walls were clad in vinyl siding, the windows cloaked by heavy drapes. A Jeep Grand Cherokee, sparkling from a recent wash, squatted in the driveway.

  Keats parked at the curb. It was nearing the supper hour. The cul-de-sac was free of pedestrians and moving vehicles.

  “Think the house is being watched?” Aiden asked.

  “I doubt it. Someone of Pinsey’s importance would have been interviewed as part of the investigation into the killing of those railfans. But considering his age and his bio, it’s hard to imagine there’d be a reason for extended surveillance.”

  Keats had changed into a wrinkle-free suit and tie from his travel bag. He looked presentably official. Aiden, in Rory’s jeans and plaid shirt, felt like a slob by comparison.

  But Keats had a plan, a deception to squeeze information out of Maurice Pinsey. He would pretend to be a federal agent and would do the talking. Aiden would keep his mouth shut and, ideally, be mistaken for a silent partner whose grungy attire suggested undercover work.

  A middle-aged Black woman with generous hips opened the door. A crucifix hung from her gold necklace. She wore a heavy kitchen smock with overlapping stains.

  “We’re here to see Maurice Pinsey,” Keats announced, flashing his ID card for the General Accounting Office faster than she could read it.

  She led them into the living room, a shrine to gloom with dark woodwork and smoky wallpaper. Ornamental bookcases seemed like relics from the Victorian era. There was no TV. A pair of high-backed wooden chairs flanked a credenza. Faint sunlight spilling from the edges of heavy drapes provided the only illumination.

  The bookcases were crammed, and alphabetized by author. Aiden noted numerous novels, including collections of Faulkner and Hemingway.