by Steven James
Yes, breadcrumbs.
Or how had Kestrel put it—a map to the bakery.
In this case, the secret might not be seeing where the breadcrumbs led, but where they began.
Oh, and number four: see if he could set down those thoughts of Kestrel Hathaway.
17
He is aware.
He knows they’re running diagnostics on him.
He knows that’s why he’s hooked up to these electrodes and this predictive analytics device.
To avoid further damage to his cognitive architecture they didn’t zero out his HuNA settings, and so he can still feel pain.
And he does now. A flood of sensory input. The descent that is so difficult to describe.
This pain races through his system, entire and whole, not isolated in one location like when he’d sliced his hand.
“By tomorrow,” he hears one of the technicians say.
“Noon.”
“That’s what Sienna told them?”
“That’s right.”
“But is that enough time to finish backing up his system files and complete the tests?”
“It’ll need to be.”
“She’s not even here.”
“She should be back in the morning.”
A brief pause. “Mr. Taka. Hello.”
“I just wanted to check in. Is he going to be alright?”
“I believe so.”
“Vice President Hathaway ordered him specifically for his sister. This is one we need to get right. He needs to forget the pain.”
“I can make that happen.”
“Will there be any residual effects?”
“Not if I’m any good at my job. And I am.”
“Alright. Do it. I don’t want him remembering what it was like to be under the water in that river or any previous times he might have been awakened.”
* * *
Ripley sat at the bar waiting for his contact.
Neon beer signs glowed on the paneled walls near the pool tables. Even the air seemed dingy in here, marked as it was by the stale stench of spilled beer and the reek of body odor from too many people packed in too closely together.
The twangy beat of country music throbbed annoyingly from speakers perched precariously on narrow shelves beside holograms that flickered with the words to the songs that were playing.
He finished his whiskey and checked the time.
“Another?” the bartender asked.
“No.” And then, “Listen, there hasn’t been anyone asking for me here earlier, has there?”
“What’s your name?”
“Ripley.”
“And who are you that someone should be looking for you?”
“Was there or wasn’t there?”
The burly man shook his head as he dragged a rag needlessly across the bar. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
The woman beside Ripley was a Plusser who’d never bothered to have her legs covered with silicone or artificial skin of any type. The metallic legs were shapely and perfect and would always be that way. Her short skirt did little to hide them.
“I’m looking for someone,” she said to him.
“Okay.”
“Buy me a drink?”
He was about to decline, but then took a more careful look at her and asked what she was having.
“Martini. Dirty.”
“Two,” he said to the tender.
She repositioned herself on the stool to face him more directly. “So, are you here alone or am I going to have to fight off another woman for your company?”
“I’m here alone.”
“And?”
“And?”
“Will I need to fight off anyone to spend time with you?”
He gazed at her in the faint bar light, trying to read her face, trying to discern if she might be his contact after all. He let his eyes travel down her body, slow and easy. She didn’t seem to care.
“I had in mind to meet with an old friend,” he said, “but it looks like he’s not here.”
The drinks came and she offered a toast. “Well then, to new friendships born in the night.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
They clinked glasses.
They spoke for a few minutes, and then she said, “You told me you were waiting for an old friend. Are you disappointed?”
“In?”
“Meeting me instead.”
“No.”
She was quick with a smile in a sly, knowing way that intrigued Ripley, and he edged his stool closer to her so it’d be easier to carry on a conversation with her in the cramped, noisy bar.
After a couple more minutes of conversation, she excused herself and the bartender watched her carefully as she slipped off to go freshen up in the washroom.
“Be careful with that one,” he said to Ripley.
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve seen her here before. She chews up guys and then spits ’em out. I’ve never seen things end well with her.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you can.”
After she returned, they finished their drinks and she leaned close to Ripley. “Let’s find a quieter place. I know somewhere not far from here.”
He paid for the drinks, but noticed her slide something to the bartender. Then she took Ripley’s hand and led him through the maze of people and outside into the night.
The contrast in temperature was stark—from the stuffy heat of the bar to the crisp November air that had settled over the city.
She took him to a deserted alley and kissed him long and deep.
“What did you give him?” Ripley asked her.
“Him?”
“The bartender. I saw you slip him something before we left.”
“Oh, just a few credits to keep him quiet.”
“What?” Ripley’s thoughts were fuzzy. Hard to pin down. “Quiet?”
“I don’t want him telling anyone.”
“Telling ’em what?” For a moment there were two of her. Then one again. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.
“He saw what I put in your drink.”
Ripley grabbed her by the collar and threw her against the brick building behind her. She didn’t resist, but already he could feel his strength fading. Even as a Plusser he doubted that he could fight her off if it came down to that.
She trailed a finger along his jawline. “Don’t worry, sweetie, you’ll be fine. It’s going to be a good trip.”
Ripley’s legs went weak and he was about to say something, but forgot what it was before the words could find their way to his mouth.
With strong and steady arms, she guided him to the ground. “Shh, now. It’s time to go to sleep.”
18
“We’re set to jam the comms?”
“Yes. He’ll have work-arounds, but it’ll take a few minutes to implement them. It might be tight, but it should give us enough time.”
The voice that came through the slate sounded male, but Eckhart wasn’t naive. With the free software on the Feeds that could be used to mask a person’s identity, it could have been veritably anyone.
“It should or it will be enough time?” Eckhart said.
“It will. We’ll only need thirty seconds or so. And once the armored car is inside the semi, there won’t be any way for him to radio out.”
“The bed of the truck—”
“Yes. It’s been prepped. No messages coming in. No messages going out. Like I told you earlier.”
“And no casualties?”
“Not if everything goes according to plan.”
“You know things don’t always go according to plan. That’s asking a lot.”
The man was quiet for a moment. “As long as the driver listens to instructions, as long as he doesn’t fire at us, we won’t have any reason to take aggressive action against him.”
“That’s not how she’ll see it.”
“But that’s how it is.”
&
nbsp; “The tarpaulin you’re using?”
He sighed. “We’ve been through this before.”
“Well, go through it again.”
“Reinforced Kevlar mesh. It’s nearly impenetrable. He won’t be able to see through it, shoot through it, slice through it. And once it’s in place, he isn’t going to be able to open his door or get out.”
“But he’ll be able to breathe?”
Clear irritation in his voice now: “All of this is in the—”
“I want to hear it again with my own ears. I want you to say it.”
“There’ll be plenty of air as long as he follows instructions.”
“You’re banking an awful lot on him following instructions.”
“You said no casualties. Then this is the way it has to be done. He listens, he lives. He disobeys, well, there are going to be consequences.”
A long silence. “Alright,” Eckhart told him at last. “Make the call. Put it into play. We want it done on Saturday morning after they drive up from Portland so we have time to take care of things before the press conference.”
* * *
When Ripley woke up, he was in a chair, his hands restrained behind him, his ankles tied to the chair’s stout legs. He blinked and tried to regroup, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. Everything was still a blur.
His first instinct was to pull free, but when he tried, even with the augmented strength from his artificial arms, he couldn’t snap the ropes. He had the sense that whoever had abducted him probably knew what he was capable of.
Unable to free himself, he tried to take in his surroundings, but the space around him was a vacuum of black. The hint of steady, circulating air passing across his cheek told him that he was inside a building, but other than that he couldn’t get any real sense of the size of the room.
There was a faint touch of light behind him and his eyes were doing their best to capture what they could. He sensed a few, vague, indiscernible gray shapes nearby. They might have been pieces of furniture or crouched figures; he would have no way to tell until his eyes became more accustomed to the low light.
He tugged again at the restraints.
Useless.
So, that meant that—
All at once, a harsh light came on only four or five meters in front of his face, aimed directly at him.
He squinched his eyes shut and turned his head to the side, but it didn’t help much and the blinding light cut through his eyelids.
“You’re going to be sorry you did this,” he said defiantly.
An electronically-masked voice addressed him. “Why didn’t you take care of Miss Hathaway?”
Ripley squinted. The voice came from somewhere beyond the light source so he had no way to see who might’ve been speaking to him—if it was the woman from the bar or someone else.
“The opportunity didn’t present itself,” he said.
“You were told to—”
“Agent Vernon is looking into her,” he cut in, avoiding the implication that he was incompetent at his job. “I think we can fuel his suspicions that she was involved.”
“Nick Vernon?”
“Yes. Did you trash her place?”
The voice was silent.
“Was it you?” Ripley pressed.
“All you need to concern yourself with right now is following orders.”
“Why am I here? Why did you bring me here?”
“You understand why this is so important? Why the timing matters?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“We’re looking at a shift in society as a whole. An entirely different way of being. When the stakes are this high, we can’t have anyone off doing his own thing.”
“I wasn’t off doing my own thing.”
Someone moved behind him and he craned his neck to see who it was, but all he could make out was the outline of a medium-height figure dressed all in black. Momentarily, a knife appeared, and the person reached forward and carefully angled the blade against the front of Ripley’s neck, just below his Adam’s apple.
The voice behind the light said, “All you need to do is keep suspicion on her for the next two days. After that, it won’t matter anymore. Once this is over, no one will remember Kestrel Hathaway.”
“Just Phoenix,” Ripley said softly, avoiding moving his throat too much for fear that the blade would slice through his skin.
“Everything happens Saturday in Cascade Falls. Until then, you will await further instructions and find opportunities to do what you’re told to, whether they conveniently present themselves to you or not.”
19
Friday, November 7
I awoke disoriented, wondering where I was. The windows of the neatly appointed room let in a wash of optimistic sunlight, gentle and warm, and, though I wasn’t quite certain what was going on, for a lingering, blissful moment all seemed right in the world.
But then I remembered what had happened last night and that I was at Arabella’s place.
I remembered.
I remembered it all: the apartment being ransacked, the carnage at the production center after the bombing, Ethan’s fate, and most of all, the loss of my daughter.
And as those thoughts swept through me, the tranquil sense of well-being gave way to an acknowledgment of how the world actually is: unyielding and ruthless and fractured in so many heartbreaking ways.
Arabella was already up and I heard her in the kitchen. The aromatic smell of coffee motivated me to get dressed, and by the time I made it down the stairs to join her, she had grits and a plate of biscuits and gravy waiting for me.
A fray of white hair still tousled from sleep perched on her head. She greeted me with her touch of southern charm, offered me breakfast, and pointed out that there was also fruit available if I preferred that. “I’m one for biscuits and gravy myself,” she said with a hint of mischievousness. “Growing up in the South’ll do that to you.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It will.”
Having bypassed dinner last night, I was quite hungry and went for the fruit, the biscuits, and the grits.
While we ate, Arabella and I tried out a bit of small talk, but it didn’t suit either of us very well and she finally just said, “How are you doing, dear? Through all of this?”
“You mean with my apartment?”
“That, but mostly your daughter.”
“Truthfully, I’m wishing I understood more about God’s ways.”
A long pause. “I lost a baby of my own, you know.”
“Arabella, I had no idea.”
“And it was my own decision.”
I looked at her curiously. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I got pregnant with my first while I was still in high school. Just a sophomore. A lonely schoolgirl full of wishes and hopes and dreams, looking for her prince in shining armor. Well, a senior boy came gallivanting into my life. He stole my heart and then I gave him the rest of me as well. I didn’t know what to do. My family was very religious—Baptist, you know—and my father was strictly against sex outside of marriage.”
“That must have been terribly difficult,” I said, “to be in that situation.”
“Yes. So I never told him. I never told anyone.” She looked at me directly. “Until now.”
A moment ago, she’d said it was her decision, so I went with the obvious conclusion. “You had an abortion.”
She nodded. “I was young. I was afraid. I was alone. That’s never a good combination.”
I searched for what to say. “I’m sorry to hear that your family wasn’t there for you.”
“I’ve never stopped loving that child I never had. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you, to have seen your baby. Did you hold her?”
“Not while she was alive.”
“Oh, I’m so very sorry.”
I was quiet.
“All I can tell you is that I’m here to listen if you need someone.” She placed one of her dainty, weathered hands on mine. “You’re
not alone. I hope you know that.”
I had to fight back tears. Here was a woman who’d carried a burden in her heart for the last seventy years, and she was offering to help lift the one I’d been handed this week.
We were sisters in faith.
In loss.
In grief.
We sat there together and, though neither of us spoke, all the while that she rested her hand on mine, more than words can express was being said.
* * *
Coffee and bagel in hand, Nick Vernon left his house to meet up with Ripley to check out the old factory where the steel fragments found in the shrapnel used in the bombing had been manufactured.
Last night, the Tac team had cleared the site, but Nick wanted to have a look himself. As his mentor had often told him at the Academy, “Feet on the ground and eyes on the scene. It’s how you notice what others miss.”
Thankfully, the S-drone hadn’t caught any unusual activity at the house where Kestrel Hathaway was staying. Nick thought about contacting her, but it was barely after eight and he didn’t want to call too early and chance waking her up.
However, he had to admit that he did want to speak with her, and planned to do so at a more respectable time.
* * *
After breakfast, Arabella invited me to the closed-in porch that she’d converted into a small greenhouse.
Though I’ve always appreciated their beauty, I’ve never been much of an expert on flowers and I wasn’t sure about the names of the plants she was watering, but the flowers she spent the most time with were pinkish purple and, judging by how much water she gave them, must have been quite thirsty.
“I talk to them, you know,” she said to me.
“Them?”
“My plants.”
“Does it help them grow?”
“It helps me.” She tenderly rubbed one of the leaves between her fingers. “What’s your schedule for the day?”
“I need to contact the agent who’s in charge of the case to see when I can return to my apartment. Also, they told me yesterday to call in at noon to check on Jordan’s condition. After that I’m planning to have lunch with my brother. He’s in town.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”