The conversation was brief.
“The woman was here barely a month,” Sister of the Order Jocelyn said. She was a small woman, not quite five-foot-three. Her silver hair reached her shoulders and framed a face that could have been etched from a block of salt. “She exhibited no signs of hostility, malice, or violent behavior. But it had only been a month.”
Rudolfo nodded. He crossed his legs and contorted his face subtly. It appeared strained. Every word seemed forced as if he only had a passive interest, as if he was here against his will on some unsavory assignment.
Sister Jocelyn continued, “Whatever Wilcott saw in her was his prerogative to see. His decision to perform the Task on her was …” She paused and looked at the wall, then back to Rudolfo. “Well, it happened.”
“Would you have Tapped her, Jocelyn?”
The woman twitched her eyebrows and inclined her head at the word “Tapped.” The use of the slang term for the Sacred Task had surprised her, Francesca guessed. It was the second time Francesca had heard Rudolfo use the term. The first time had been when he was in a weakened, angry state, but now he was perfectly within his right mind. Perhaps he used it to throw Jocelyn off guard, trying to elicit some hidden truth by flaring her temper.
Jocelyn, however, remained preternaturally calm. “At that point in my observations of her, I would not have selected her for the Sacred Task.” Sister Jocelyn’s back stiffened. “And our long acquaintance is the only thing keeping me from asking you to leave, Rudolfo. These questions are inappropriate and unbecoming.”
Rudolfo bent his head and nodded. Francesca knew the conversation had ended. They had learned all they could from Sister Jocelyn.
It was clear, however, that Wilcott had no permission and no invitation to perform the Task in Jocelyn’s ward.
* * *
Back on level twenty-four in the observation room, the two of them stared at the computer screen, both dumbfounded.
They were reading the arrest records and case files for the four inmates. Leo Alkorn, Rajesh Imanpor, Stanley Winthorpe, and Natalie Shoeman had all been involved in the same crime—a scheme to rob their employer, Ventana Inc.
Francesca knew of Ventana, of course. Nearly every Member of the Order used Ventana’s revolutionary Zentransa pill to take advantage of the extra hours it added to their day. Zentransa was mentioned time and again in classes at the Pupil’s School as an effective weapon in a Member’s arsenal.
All four inmates had arrived at the Coppice on the same day. The three men had been assigned to Wilcott’s ward, the woman to Sister Jocelyn’s.
“Leo Alkorn was inmate number 7822 and according to this,” Francesca pointed to a file on the screen, “he managed the other three at Ventana. He was the so-called ringleader of the crime. And,” she pointed her finger at a different file on another screen, “he was the first to be selected by Wilcott.”
Her eyes bounced between monitors and her mind swam with ideas. These four were obviously connected on the outside and Wilcott’s selecting of them for the Task could not have been random. The question was why. She could not fathom a reason why Wilcott, of all people, would want these four people dead.
She looked up at Rudolfo, hoping he would have some answers, hoping his wisdom, so much greater than hers, could shed some light on the problem. His face revealed nothing. He turned and began pacing behind her.
She spun back to the screens and searched for more information on the four prisoners. There was so much information about them on the internet it was difficult to know where to start. Their lives had been rich with accomplishments: awards in science, chairs of research departments, prizes, hundreds of scientific journal articles, and prestigious jobs one after another until the four of them coalesced at Ventana, Inc.
She scanned news articles, looking for any clues that might reveal more. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but felt she’d know it when she saw it.
Nothing stood out to her for several minutes as she clicked and scrolled through page after page of search results. The article titles were clipped, but she could glean their substance by the first few words. Most of the articles dealt with the Ventana crime and the subsequent trial.
One, however, was not like the rest. The title read Ventana Four Linked to Bom …
She clicked the link.
The full title read Ventana Four Linked to Bombings Says Inside Source. The article, dated April 30, was from a publication called The Aberdeen Bugle. She read the short article.
Insiders at the Metropolitan Police Department have revealed to the Bugle that there is suspicion of a connection between the Ventana Four and the bombings and strange poisonings plaguing the city.
The Ventana scientists, arrested and convicted recently on embezzlement charges, are now locked up in the Regional Correction Center. An insider with knowledge of the investigation and current police theories states that it is believed the scientists had a score to settle with their former employer and the city that sentenced them to an unknown length of time in the notorious prison also known as the Keep.
It is believed that their knowledge of chemistry and other sciences aided in their creation of the violent plan to dismantle the city. How they communicated with OFP to execute their deadly plan is unknown as they were locked away when the violence started.
More to come on this story.
Ventana, Inc did not respond when asked for comment.
A quick search revealed no other publication had investigated the story further. Her suspicion was that Wilcott must have researched the four inmates, as they just did, and then selected them for the Task based on what he found.
She voiced her theory to Rudolfo.
“Maybe. But why these four?” He shook his head, not looking at her as he did. “I’d like to believe he would have indicated research like that in his journal, but I did not see any. So why choose these four to do this kind of research and no others?”
“Families of blast victims could have told him,” she offered. “One of the guards here could have had a loved one killed in one of the attacks.”
He squinted at her with crossed arms, his chin rested in the web of his thumb and forefinger.
“That article is conjecture at best.” He pointed at the monitor behind her. “Brother Wilcott would require proof.”
Francesca leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers in front of her. She stared through them toward the wall, wondering what their next steps should be; wondering if any of it was worth pursuing at all. She had no idea where all this would lead them.
She turned back to the monitors. The results of her last search were displayed. Below the Bugle story, an article from the City Sun caught her eye. Metro Police Bring Peace, OFP Eliminated.
Out of curiosity, she clicked the link. It was about the last police raid on the OFP stronghold that resulted in a fierce battle claiming the lives of two officers and eight combatants. In the center of the article was a photograph of an officer being lifted into an ambulance, a wound in his side.
Below the picture there was a caption.
Detective Aaron Lewis, lead investigator in the OFP manhunt, seen here being taken to the hospital after suffering wounds in the battle with the terror group.
She had not noticed Rudolfo standing behind her until he spoke.
“We need to know what they know,” he said. She looked over her shoulder at him then turned back to the screen. His eyes were locked on the photo of Detective Aaron Lewis.
20
Plans
Nicholas Fox leaned against a tree, one foot propped behind him, spinning a twig between his fingers and thumb.
His first plan had failed, that much was clear. He found it unlikely that he could secure another breather as easily as the first and equally unlikely that he could convince another inmate to commit murder. The Tappers were likely suspicious already. All they had to do was dig through video footage and put the pieces together. They were probably asking questions about
the breather and the weapon and the obvious trap.
Not to worry, he thought. His backup plan was well under way. He just needed a few more recruits to go along with the plan.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax, allowing his chin to rest on his chest. He imagined himself somewhere else, anywhere else.
The harsh, pungent smell of sap wafted up from a newly felled pine tree twenty feet away. He could be camping, under the trees. He could be lying on his back on a cushy sleeping bag with a young woman next to him. She’d caress his chest while he stared at the blue sky through the branches overhead. It’d been a long hike that day; time to wind down.
“Hey, Prof!”
His eyes snapped open. The daydream vanished. Bad timing, he thought. These guys always had bad timing.
Footsteps crunched through pine needles and tree bark. He looked up to see a burly man approaching, olive skinned with tattoos covering most of his neck, face and head. The tattoos were a patchwork of violent symbols, letters, and numbers connected within a network of spider webs. There was no clear motif or theme. A clear patch sat on top of his skull with the standard barcode running down its center.
With his head still bent low, he greeted the leader of the Church Street Jackals.
“Hello, friend. Enjoying your day in the great outdoors?”
The man did not appreciate the humor.
“Don’t have time for this shit, Prof. You have ten seconds to tell me why I’m here before I gut you, boy.”
“Easy, Ko. No need to do any gutting today.” He paused to make sure Ko was listening. “I need you to execute on our plan. Soon.”
Ko took a step closer to Fox, standing a foot from him. The leader of the Jackals produced a ten-inch wooden stake from under his shirt and pressed its sharpened point against Fox’s belly. Ko leaned in close and snarled, his breath stank of sardines overlaid with general halitosis.
“I told you I wasn’t doing that.” Ko gritted his teeth and pressed the point harder into Fox’s belly. “It’s a bullshit plan. Ain’t no getting the other shot callers to go along with it.”
Fox tried his best to steady his voice, but couldn’t resist a hard, noisy swallow.
“Have you talked to your mother recently?” Fox’s voice wavered. With trembling fingers, he produced a tiny earpiece from his pocket. Ko’s eyes shot to the earpiece then back to Fox. The earpiece was the highest form of contraband, nearly impossible to sneak in and just as difficult to keep under wraps.
Fox handed the device to Ko. “Go ahead. Speak her number. Then ask her how she’s doing.”
The pressure on the wooden shiv softened, but Ko held it there while he did as Fox instructed. With the earpiece inserted, he spoke a ten-digit number. After a few seconds, his face fell and the leader of the Jackals took two steps backward with the stake at his side.
Fox exhaled a breath and watched as Ko spoke into the earpiece. His hard featured softened. He even smiled a few times.
Having the earpiece made conducting and executing his scheme far simpler. His employer had risked a great deal getting it to him, which meant moving quickly must be paramount.
Still speaking into the earpiece, Ko turned to look at Fox. He spoke in Spanish and it sounded as if he were asking his mother questions. The entire time, he stared at Fox with cold, hard eyes.
Finally, he raised a hand to his ear and removed the earpiece. The call was over.
“Good news?” Fox asked.
“Yes.” Ko nodded. He turned his head and handed the earpiece back to Fox. “Yes. Let me know when you want to start and we’ll be ready.”
Fox did his best to smile sincerely. “That’s,” he cleared his throat then continued, “good to hear. I’ll be in touch.”
Ko grunted, turned and walked away, flinging the wooden shiv into the dirt as he went.
Fox had conducted a dozen of these conversations over the last two days; he was exhausted. These tough guys all melted when their mothers or wives or favorite aunt told them the good news: that they’d miraculously found huge sums of money in their bank accounts, and all their debt had been erased. At least gang leaders held true to one stereotype—family first.
Nicholas Fox had never studied riot behavior or mob mentality. His field of study had involved the less violent sides of human psychology. Based on what he knew about the human mind, however, he estimated that he would need at least eight percent of the prison population to riot in earnest before the rest would follow suit out of peer pressure or boredom.
To be safe, he wanted at least twelve percent of inmates rioting like savages in order to kick up the fervor of the others. If all of the gang leaders he spoke to followed through and their members did what they were told, that would give him somewhere in the neighborhood of nineteen percent. Plenty of wiggle room.
Fox still had no idea why a full-on prison riot was so important to his employer. He didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was what came after—his own freedom.
And he’d kill every man and woman in the Keep to get it.
21
Convergence
Martin Aubrey was sitting on the sofa again. It had been his defacto quarters since he and Malina had moved their operation to the hotel.
He laid on his back, scrolling on the tablet to read and re-read the newly decoded messages.
This string of messages was sent just five days before the Ventana four were arrested and nearly three weeks after the Jorgetson child fell ill. The timing made no sense to Aubrey. And there had been no mention of One Front for the People or anything alluding to it.
He wished Ted could work faster.
Aubrey looked over the edge of the tablet. Malina stood at the room’s narrow window, peering around the curtain. She scanned the street below and the buildings across from them, her head bobbing and turning to get a better look.
When he told her about the attack on Reynolds and his hunch that it, the ambush on him, and Grant’s murder were connected, she went into a frenzy of activity. She placed discreet sensors in the hallway outside their room and in the lobby on the ground floor. She installed a worm in the hotel registration system that would alert them if anyone penetrated it looking for them. Lastly, she deployed three microdrones to hover over the building as sentries.
Once she had hacked the hotel computer system to install the worm, she linked the guest registry with the drones’ AI. Anyone who entered the hotel whose facial recognition did not match someone already registered triggered an alert. The worm also compared every face entering the hotel with a rough description of the woman who attacked Aubrey. That too would trigger an alert.
“All the high-end tech you’ve put in place for security and you can’t help but look out the window.”
“It makes me feel better,” she said, not turning around.
“If anyone out there sees you, they’re going to find it suspicious. You’ve been at it for nearly twenty minutes.”
With an audible grunt, she turned and fell back into the desk chair.
Aubrey watched her, she watched him back.
“Thoughts?” she asked.
Aubrey tossed the tablet onto the coffee table where it spun for several turns. “I should have been an accountant.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I meant about the messages.”
“Other than I wish we had more?” He raised his eyebrows and pointed his chin at the desk behind her. “How much longer do you think it will take Ted?”
“For the hundredth time, I don’t know. What do you make of the latest ones?”
“You’re right.” He sat up. “Alkorn is applying pressure and the team has cold feet. I wonder what kind of leverage he had on them?”
“Financial or professional or personal. Or a combination of all three. Who knows?” Malina shrugged and crossed her arms. She then uncrossed them and fidgeted with a pen on the desk.
They were both getting antsy. The attacks, the hotel, the stress of not knowing answers to so many questions weighe
d on them. Had he and Malina known each other better, they’d probably be at each other’s throats.
“And the words ‘no choice’ repeated twice,” he said. “That, once again, points to an outside actor. Someone pulling the strings.”
Malina stood and moved to the couch. She sat next to Aubrey and picked up the tablet from the coffee table. “So, this ‘actor’ applies pressure to Alkorn who in turn applies pressure to his team. Makes sense.”
Aubrey sighed. “What did you find on the doctor?”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She moved back to the computer desk. “After considerable digging through the Nebular records, I found three doctors who had ordered the Stimuthera machine inside the timeframe we needed.”
She pulled them up on screen. Aubrey saw three headshots. All male doctors past middle age.
“They all had multiple orders of the machine in that window. Two of them ordered over half a dozen each. The third doctor,” she clicked once and two of the photos fell away, “ordered exactly two. Both within days of each other.”
Aubrey straightened, suddenly attentive. “Before or after the Binns-Lourdes ordered theirs?”
“Before.” She smiled.
“That lines up.” He stood and began to pace a well-worn path. “Who is the doctor?”
“Doctor Randall McCalister.”
“Any other connections for him?” He rubbed his chin against the rough stubble. He needed to shave. Against his hand he caught a whiff of his own breath—disgusting. How long had it been since he’d had a shower? He was suddenly concerned about his hygiene.
“Just one.” He stopped fretting over himself and looked at her. She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.
“What is it?” he said, his hand still on his chin.
“He’s only had one patient for the last three-and-a-half years.”
Her penchant for relishing in suspense would be something he’d have to get used to.
“Who?”
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