Firewalkers

by Chris Roberson

  But when the next video opened with the assertion that the true purpose of the encoded data was for mind control, and that Parasol was secretly brainwashing the users of their software products to engender brand loyalty, Patrick couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

  The rest of the videos in the playlist veered ever deeper into the realms of conspiracy theories, arguing that Zotovic was secretly part of the Reptilian Illuminati, lizard people who disguised themselves as human and secretly controlled all of the major governments and financial institutions of the world, and that Zotovic had been instrumental in engineering the global warming that would render the planet Earth more suitable for a full-scale invasion by his fellow lizard people from outer space, and on and on and on.

  Cursing under his breath, Patrick slapped the lip of the laptop shut, berating himself for devoting so much of his time to watching what were clearly the ravings of a deranged lunatic.

  Glancing at his phone, he saw that there was only a little more than an hour left until sunset. Grabbing his laptop and his quilted jacket, he started for the door. But he stopped short as a thought struck him, and walked over to where the file boxes were stacked. He was alone in the room, but couldn’t help glancing around nervously to make sure no one was watching as he reached inside one of the boxes, and quickly slipped his closed hand into his pocket. Then he turned off the lights and locked the door of the community room behind him. He had just enough time to stop by the grocery store on the way home to pick up supplies and be safely back in his neighborhood before the Ridden were free to roam the city streets.

  At least they didn’t have to worry about an invasion of lizard people from outer space.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Back at the FBI’s Resident Agency, Izzie was making notes on the legal pad when her phone chimed in her coat pocket, indicating a new message. She pulled it out and tapped the power button. The text was from Daphne.

  “DOING OKAY?”

  Izzie tapped out a quick response: “GREAT. FINISHING UP SOME RESEARCH AT THE R.A., SHOULD BE READY TO ROLL SOON. YOU?”

  She watched the ellipsis pulse in a text bubble on the screen as Daphne composed her response on the other end.

  “COOL. I’M HEADING THERE SHORTLY. I’M BRINGING YOU SOME CLOTHES I THINK WOULD LOOK GREAT ON YOU. ;)”

  Izzie rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. She texted back an emoji of a smiley face with its tongue sticking out, then returned the phone to her pocket.

  She stacked the journals, academic paper, and legal pad on top of the closed laptop, then bent down under the desk to unplug the laptop’s adapter cord. Then she picked up the carrying case that the laptop had been in when it was issued to her, and shoved the whole stack inside. She was zipping it shut when she heard footsteps behind her.

  “Agent Lefevre, this is a surprise.”

  She turned, and saw Senior Resident Agent Manuel Gutierrez standing in the doorway. He was dressed casually, in a plain t-shirt, jogging pants, and running shoes. It was a stark contrast to the dark, somber suit and tie that he’d worn every other time that she’d seen him. He had a coat draped over one arm, and under his other arm was tucked a vinyl case that appeared to contain a tennis racket.

  “Agent Gutierrez,” Izzie managed, nodding in greeting. “I didn’t think you were coming in today.”

  He hung his coat on a hook by the door, and held up the vinyl case.

  “Had a squash game with the Deputy Mayor at the athletic center,” he explained. “Figured I’d drop by and catch up on some correspondence.”

  “Did you win?” Izzie was trying to keep her tone light, but wasn’t sure she was succeeding.

  “Not this time.” The Senior Resident Agent shrugged. “I find it helps to let the deputy win a few, from time to time. Keeps him amenable.”

  He set the racket case down on an empty desk.

  “The Mayor’s office was keen to hear any updates about your investigation. I told them that so far you hadn’t turned up anything of substance.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that an accurate assessment, would you say?”

  “Do you mean,” Izzie replied, unable to keep a somewhat defensive, even combative tone out of her voice, “have I found anything that would indicate that the books on the Fuller case need to be reopened?”

  Agent Gutierrez narrowed his eyes, his jaw tight. “I know I don’t need to remind you that the local authorities would just as soon forget that the ‘Recondito Reaper’ ever existed. Dragging it back through the courts again—or worse, the media—would make for some very unhappy people down at City Hall. The Mayor is dealing with the bad publicity that surrounds a police officer killed in the line of duty. I would hate to see him face more unnecessary stress at a time like this.”

  He paused for a moment, giving her a hard stare. “And I can assure you that they would want to make the Bureau understand the full measure of their unhappiness, too. Especially with respect to the enterprising young agent who was responsible.”

  Izzie stood up straighter, hands at her sides. “With all due respect, sir,” she said, in a tone that was far from respectful, “let’s assume for the moment that I did discover something that we missed five years ago. Some crucial bit of evidence that would mean that the Fuller case did need to be reopened. Are you suggesting that I should ignore it? Are you attempting to order me to do so? Because I would have to check the chain of command to be certain, but I’m pretty sure that you would be—”

  “Hold on, hold on.” He put his hands up in front of his chest, palms forward, in a defensive posture. “I’ll go on record as saying that the last thing I’d do would be to suggest that you conceal evidence of a crime. Okay? That’s not what I’m saying.”

  Izzie arched an eyebrow suggestively, inviting him to continue.

  “What I’m saying is that Nicholas Fuller is dead, the families of his victims have found whatever peace with that they’re going to find, and the city has done its level best to move on. Anything that you find, whatever detail about those killings that you uncover, isn’t going to bring Fuller back so we can take him to court again. The man’s dead. So unless you’ve found that he wasn’t acting alone, and that there’s another suspect out there . . .”

  He trailed off, an expression blooming slowly across his face.

  “You haven’t found evidence of an accomplice, have you?” he asked, horrified.

  “No, no,” Izzie answered, shaking her head furiously. “Nothing that Lieutenant Tevake and I have found contradicts the established conclusion that Nicholas Fuller carried out the Reaper killings on his own.”

  Not exactly, anyway, she thought to herself.

  “Good.” He breathed a literal sigh of relief.

  “In fact,” Izzie continued, taking on a more conciliatory tone, “the bulk of our investigation has been focused on the production and distribution of a new street drug, and the inquiries into Fuller’s background and the background materials we’ve gathered from his former colleagues have primarily been gathered in support of the RPD’s ongoing narcotics investigation. It’s true that we have uncovered some information about Fuller that didn’t come to light in the taskforce’s original investigation, but it’s all in line with what we already knew.” She paused, and then managed a wan smile. “No surprises.”

  Agent Gutierrez seemed somewhat mollified. He nodded slowly, and then went to pick his racket up from the desk. As he turned, his gaze landed on Izzie’s go-bag sitting in the chair across the room, and he straightened back up, leaving the racket where it lay.

  “Planning on leaving us soon, Agent Lefevre?” he said, giving her a quizzical look.

  She looked from Agent Gutierrez to her bag and back again, thinking fast. “I’ll be joining Lieutenant Tevake on an extended stakeout,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s not clear how long we’ll have to remain in position, so I figured I’d bring along my things to keep as comfortable as possible.”

  He nodded. “My first stakeout was down in B
iloxi, back in ’98,” he said, a little wistfully. “We thought we’d be in and out in a couple of days, but ended up having to stay in position for an entire month. And then the hurricane hit and it all went to—”

  “Are you decent in there, Izzie?” a voice from the hall outside shouted. “Because I’d be okay if you’re not, because then maybe we could—”

  Daphne stopped short as soon as she stepped through the open door and saw the Senior Resident Agent standing there.

  “Oh,” she said, quickly regaining her composure. “Agent Gutierrez.” She glanced at the racket case. “How’d the match with the Deputy Mayor go?”

  “I let him win,” he answered, and then gestured to the overnight bag hanging off Daphne’s shoulder. “Going somewhere, Agent Richardson?”

  “I, um . . .” Daphne clutched the strap of the bag, and Izzie could almost see the thoughts racing behind her eyes.

  “I’ve requested that Agent Richardson assist me in the surveillance team,” Izzie quickly put in. “Lieutenant Tevake’s vice squad has already committed so many resources to this narcotics investigation that they’re a little short-staffed, so I suggested that we might be able to offer some backup.”

  “And it won’t interfere with my current workload,” Daphne hastened to add, following Izzie’s lead. “My caseload is pretty light at the moment, and what little I do have on my plate I can handle remotely. And I’ll be close enough that I can get back to the office quickly if needed.” She paused, studying Agent Gutierrez’s expression. “I was coming in to write it up for your approval, sir.”

  He chewed it over for a long moment before answering, giving them each a hard stare in turn.

  “All right, I don’t have any strong objections to that,” he finally answered. “So long as I don’t end up having to pick up your slack.”

  He picked up his racket, and then crossed the floor to his office door. Pausing in the open doorway he turned and gave them a curt nod, and then shut the door behind him.

  “Stakeout, huh?” Daphne said in a low voice, turning to face Izzie.

  “I had to improvise.” Izzie shrugged. “But it’ll cover us if we need to go to ground.”

  Daphne glanced over at the door to Agent Gutierrez’s office. “There’s a chance he could follow up on it. Not saying he doesn’t trust us, but he’s a stickler for documenting any Bureau involvement with local law enforcement.”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to see if Patrick can put in some paperwork on his end, get it on the books with Recondito PD. Between the ongoing Ink investigation and a police officer killed in the line of duty while working the case, I’m sure he can put together a strong enough case to justify a surveillance team, at least on paper.”

  Daphne nodded, then gestured to the laptop carrying case on Izzie’s desk. “You get everything you need?”

  “I think so.” Instinctively, Izzie patted her pockets in sequence, making sure she had all of her equipment on her, even though she had just done so a short time before when leaving her hotel room. It was somewhere between a ritual and an obsessive tic. Phone, FBI credentials, firearm? Check, check, and check. Ammunition and handcuffs? “It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to get some more ammo before we go, though.”

  “I got you covered.” Daphne headed toward the gun vault door, and Izzie followed her over. As she punched in the code on the electronic door lock, Daphne hummed thoughtfully. “I’m wondering if we shouldn’t tool up.”

  She pushed the door open, and then held it for Izzie to step inside.

  “What do you have in mind?” Izzie asked.

  Daphne followed her inside, and gestured to the locked cages that lined the walls. “Bullets might not be enough to take those Ridden guys down, but maybe something with a little more stopping power could slow them down a bit.”

  Izzie looked around the cages while Daphne pulled a keyring from her pocket and unlocked the locker where the ammunition was stored. A Resident Agency like this didn’t maintain the kind of armory that a Field Office supporting a Special Weapons and Tactics Team would, but what they did have might come in handy.

  “You don’t think Agent Gutierrez would have a problem with that?” Izzie asked.

  “I’m responsible for the inventory.” Daphne had a sly grin on her face as she passed her a few clips worth of ammunition for her semiautomatic. “We’d have it all checked back in before he even noticed, I’m guessing. And if we have to use any of this gear, and I have to write up any shots fired reports, well, the fact we needed it will justify the fact we took it, right?”

  “Okay, then.” Izzie nodded, sliding the ammunition into her pocket. “Let’s tool up.”

  A short while later the two left the offices, Izzie with her go-bag slung over her shoulder and the laptop carrying case in her hand, and Daphne with her overnight bag on one arm and a vinyl duffle bag containing a couple of tactical shotguns, two bulletproof vests, and several boxes of shells on the other.

  “Come on,” Izzie said, glancing at the sky as they stepped outside. The sun was barely visible over the tops of the skyscrapers of the Financial District to the west. “We need to get moving. There’s some things I want to pick up on the way there.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Patrick was in the produce section of the grocery store, loading his basket with the ingredients for the stew he’d decided to fix for dinner, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and swiped it on, and saw that he had an incoming call from Joyce.

  “Hey, you,” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the morgue,” came the reply over his phone’s speaker. “I just finished up my report on Carlson, and as soon as I file it I’ll be heading down to your place. Are you there now?”

  “No, just making a quick stop at the store.” Patrick tossed a bag of potatoes into the shopping cart.

  “Okay.” She sounded a little preoccupied.

  “Everything alright?”

  He could hear her sighing on the other end of the call. “Yeah, I’m just a little spooked. Ten years working with dead bodies every day and I never really had a problem before, but now . . .” She trailed off.

  “That was before one of them got back up off the slab and came after you,” Patrick said, his tone sympathetic.

  “Yeah.” She paused for a moment. “Oh, hey, I finally got back the lab analysis of the stuff I found under Tyler Campbell’s fingernails.”

  It was Campbell’s unexpected death in a holding cell, and the discovery of the vacuoles in his brain in the subsequent autopsy, that had first given Patrick the suspicion that there might be a connection with the Fuller murders.

  “And?” he asked.

  “Haven’t had a chance to dig too deeply into it, but it’s . . . weird.” He could hear papers rustling in the background. “I’m bringing it with me, so you can look it over yourself tonight, if you want. But like I say . . . it’s weird.”

  “So, noted.” He steered the shopping cart out of the produce section and headed toward the butcher counter. “Can I get you anything at the store?”

  She barked a quick laugh before answering. “How about a case of wine? After all that’s happened, I think I need at least that much.”

  “I’m on it,” Patrick answered, chuckling.

  “Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.” She paused, and added, “And Patrick? Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Never.”

  The call ended, and he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  He might need to stop by the liquor store down the street from his place on the way, as well, Patrick decided. If the rest of them were as anxious about all of this as he was, wine might not cut it.

  Patrick was unloading grocery bags from the trunk of his car when a car pulled to a stop at the curb a few car lengths behind him, and he felt himself tensing defensively as he turned at the sound of the engine switching off and the car doors opening. He glanced over his shoulder, his free hand slipping to his side
toward the handle of his holstered pistol, but when he saw that it was Izzie and Daphne climbing out of the car behind him and not some blot-marked shamble come to kill him, he relaxed visibly. Intellectually, he knew that, even though the sun had just set, the marks his great-uncle had made around the neighborhood would keep the Ridden at bay, but there was still a skeptical voice in the back of his head that felt vulnerable and exposed being outside after dark.

  “Evening, ladies,” he said with a nod in their direction and, picking up a paper bag of groceries in either hand, headed toward the front door of his house.

  “Such a gentleman,” Izzie said, voice dripping with sarcasm as she pulled a backpack, computer carrying case, and shopping bags from the back seat of the car.

  “Wouldn’t a gentleman offer to help with the heavy stuff?” Daphne replied, struggling a little with the weight of a heavily loaded duffle and an overnight bag.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Patrick answered as he balanced one of the paper bags on his hip and unlocked the front door. He held the door open with his foot, stepping to one side to let Izzie and Daphne enter past him. “Put your stuff anywhere. I’ll clear out one of the rooms upstairs as soon as I get the stew cooking on the stove.”

  “Don’t sweat it, we can handle the mess upstairs.” Izzie was already climbing the stairs to the second floor, and Daphne was depositing the duffle bag on the floor in the living room before following her up.

  Patrick felt the same pang of embarrassment that he’d felt that morning when they’d gone to shower in the second-floor bathroom. He was self-conscious that anyone was seeing the sorry state of the rooms upstairs, and he was sure that Izzie must have taken him for some kind of hoarder. But the truth of the matter was that the “mess” up there, as she had described it, represented all that Patrick had left of his mother and great-uncle, and the only physical reminders he had left of his own childhood with them. He had tried many times over the years to tackle the almost Herculean task of clearing all of it out and making those rooms usable again, but each time he started in on it he ended up losing hour after hour lost in nostalgia, following a seemingly endless web of associations that led from one childhood memory to another, some pleasant and some less so, but all of them cherished in one way or another.