If the two men Cheyenne left outside the PASK offices had had tails, they would have been tucked between their legs. They knew enough to realize they had to leave her alone. Cheyenne wasn’t the enemy, at least not yet, and she was using one of the two assets she had for the moment: her ability either to speak out or remain silent. PASK and all those higher-ups wanted her silence.
I’m also holding something far more valuable: information.
The world would be very interested in and even outraged at the experiments she had been conducting the last year. She could share a lot with others.
This could lead to potential dangers down the road. Actually, it could be the moment she walked out of this building. At least here she was still protected by the number of people around her and all the security and watching eyes. Outside in the real world of sorts—the kind with a sun that moved up and down instead of endless elevators every day—she wouldn’t be as safe. She would be on her own in every way, and like a wounded pup that’s fallen away from the pack, she would be vulnerable.
“There are people in control,” Malek once told her. “Not the government but higher-ups. A small group that controls everything. And Jackson Heyford’s one of them.”
Malek had never been one for conspiracy theories, but in the last few months of working for PASK, he had started saying things like that. And he had told her that he had the information to back up the claims. But before he could show her, Malek was gone.
“Do not overthink and analyze the situation you’re about to encounter,” the voice had said to her. “Deal with the road in front of you and the door that’s about to open.”
She kept telling herself that was what she needed to do.
So get up and start. Move and begin to make plans to leave.
Before doing anything, however, Cheyenne had to finish reading her father’s note. But as if she were frozen in her seat, which came from fear and shock, she didn’t want to open the letter again. Yet she had to. Especially in the confines of her home, a place the government forbade any human monitoring.
They’ve broken a lot of laws, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they were breaking this one too.
Cheyenne finally went over to her backpack, which was full of her important things, dug into it, and took out the note.
Okay. Here we go.
6.
Under the small curved reading light by her bed, Cheyenne cupped the piece of paper close to her eyes so that if there was a watching device somewhere, the people monitoring it wouldn’t be able to read what it said.
Dear Cheyenne,
If you’re reading this in your office, don’t continue. You are in danger and must get out of the building as fast as you can. Save the rest of my comments for later.
I know it’s been a long time since you’ve heard from me, and I’m sorry about that. I’m also sorry that this is the way you’re finally hearing from me again. So much has happened, Cheyenne, things that I want to, that I truly hope to be able to tell you, even if it has to be in heaven. And don’t roll your eyes when I say that. I mean it with all my heart.
A year ago when we last spoke, a conversation I deeply regret having gone wrong, I had the same spirit the apostle Peter had in John 13:37. He was eager to serve Jesus and said he would even die for Him, but Peter was so impatient and didn’t understand the bigger picture. He would later, of course, but God had to take him through some difficult times before Peter fully comprehended what it meant to be a disciple. I think I understand; at least I know more now than I did when we last spoke.
I’m here to help you—to warn you and also to connect you with someone. But I realize this note might be read or stolen or might not ever reach you. So I have to speak in code. We shared our own language when you were a little girl, so this will be easy for you.
There was something that I began to admire and even love later in my life. Something you said that you could never quite understand and something that I even attempted to help you appreciate. Think of this single word.
There is a man with this nickname. He is near the place you always wanted to settle down in. A local will know of him. He loves microbreweries and stout beer. Look for him so he can find you. When he trusts that you are who you say you are, he’ll tell you everything he knows.
There are more words to come. But not now. Not like this.
My song of the day is “Blackbird” by the Beatles. Please listen.
Please know I love you.
I vow to tell you these three words again in person one day.
Daddy
She folded the note and stood up beside her made bed. Perhaps other women would have to wipe tears from their cheeks but not Cheyenne. She was still trying to process everything instead of becoming all emotional. She was analyzing the mystery he had presented her. And perhaps burying the other stuff he had written to her.
Moving to the blacked-out windows of her apartment, Cheyenne called out to open the blinds. Of course, there weren’t actual blinds, nor was there any sort of glass or a window that could open. Not on the 194th floor of the Incen Tower. The glass was actually a powerfully clear material made in Germany, something that had a technical name but was basically superglass. It couldn’t be broken and was also pliable enough to work within the grand structure of this skyscraper. As the tinted windows became clear, she could see the dark night outside.
Cheyenne moved to the edge of the glass and looked down. Chicago looked like golden snowflakes so far below her. It felt as if the city was as far away as her father.
“Indy, play ‘Blackbird,’ ” she said, talking to her LC.
The term “Life Companion” always amused her, since a companion was someone you snuggled with on the couch or spooned in bed or cooked eggs with after waking up. Her father told her that people used to call it “Siri,” based on the popular intelligent personal assistant Apple had created. But now those so-called Siris were everywhere, so they needed to be categorized. A Life Companion was the artificial intelligence inside an individual’s SYNAPSYS, and perhaps nobody in the world knew more about the intricacies involved with this than Cheyenne herself.
The nickname Indy was short for Indiana Jones, one of her childhood heroes because the movie character had been her father’s hero too. So much of her life came back to this monumental figure, one she sometimes wanted and other times needed to chip away at and even break away from. It was dangerous to have heroes. At least real live ones.
As the song began to play throughout her apartment, Cheyenne looked at the walls, listening with her full attention to the song. It was the Beatles; this much she knew. But she couldn’t remember hearing it before. The tune was simple and intimate, sung as though the singer were sitting across from her. Just an acoustic guitar and a tapping, as if something were wrong with the audio.
That’s a foot tapping. Just like Dad used to do.
She thought of the way he had signed the note. Cheyenne hadn’t called him Daddy in a long time, but deep in her heart, that’s what he would always be. Hearing from her father made him become Daddy again, at least in this private moment where nobody else could hear, where darkness waited outside her apartment and the rest of the world lived so far below.
“Blackbird fly into the light of the dark black night.”
Her father hadn’t written only to connect with her. He had given her specific instructions. Tomorrow she would follow his advice.
Tomorrow she would figure out how to fly.
TWO
We Are Accidents Waiting to Happen
1.
“You have to give me your gun.”
Dowland laughed at the idea. The guy looking down at him by the doorway leading to the pool surely had to be a former World League wrestler who now provided security in his work hours and ate lots of fried foods in his free time. Being big and bulky only meant t
he security guy wouldn’t be able to chase Dowland if he had to and wouldn’t be able to hop back up after getting kicked in the gut.
“You’ll have to take it off me,” Dowland said.
“Let him in, Manny,” a voice commanded from a speaker somewhere on the security guard.
So Manny did, moving aside and opening the wrought-iron door. The Miami sun was hot and bright, and Dowland hadn’t stopped sweating since stepping off the private plane. As he walked toward a sprawling pool in the shape of a flower, he squinted even though he was wearing sunglasses. His head hadn’t stopped throbbing since his phone had yanked him out of bed at a quarter of three this morning. Dowland was old school when it came to his technology, choosing to carry an actual phone he could initiate or receive calls on. Anything more was too much. Anything more meant he might be easy to find. Especially if his SYNAPSYS was turned on.
The ones calling could reach him, and that was the point. They could tell him a car would pick him up and take him to a chartered plane. That’s all they told him and all he knew. Dowland knew enough, however, to recognize this sort of meeting was unusual. He was skipping the gatekeepers this time. Dowland had no idea why and wouldn’t ask. But he kept his compact SIG Sauer pistol nestled in his waistband. Just in case something went wrong.
A hundred tanned, beautiful people could have been mingling poolside, and there still would have been plenty of room to walk around, but Dowland could see only one figure in white sitting underneath an umbrella. No guards were in sight. No ladies lounging on any of the dozen chairs in the sun. No children frolicking in the clear water of the pool. Dowland walked over to the umbrella and discovered a man probably in his seventies wearing what appeared to be linen pajamas. A glass of ice water rested in front of him.
“Forgive me for not standing,” the man told Dowland as he offered to shake hands. “Please, sit.”
As Dowland sat on a lounge chair, his button-down shirt clung to his back like a sopping towel. The man across from him had about as much hair on his eyebrows and earlobes as he had on his head. The deep wrinkles on his face were prominent in the clear light of midday. He resembled a fair-colored prune.
“My name is Mel Bohmer,” he said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
Dowland didn’t need to know Mel’s name, but he could think of about a hundred things this little fella could get him to drink.
“Water would be fine,” he said, glancing out to the violent ocean waves battering the breakwater on the beach.
Bohmer gave him a gentle nod and a knowing smile but didn’t move or react to the request.
“See all that sand?” Bohmer pointed toward the oceanfront. “All of it—every single rock and mineral—came from me. I would tell you how much I paid for it, but that’s not only showing off. It’s belittling. And as a younger man, I used to hate when people did that to me.”
“Why am I here?” Dowland asked.
“To talk. In person.”
“I guess I should rephrase it. Why am I here with you?”
Mel smiled. “You’re a man of action. Savage, if you ask me. The others respect it. But the situation has grown—mutated perhaps is the better word—into something precarious. I wanted you to hear the gravity of the matter, not from someone delivering the message but from the one describing it.”
Dowland didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. He heard footsteps approaching behind him and turned to see a stunning dark-skinned woman carrying a glass of water.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked Dowland in an accent that sounded British.
“No, thanks.”
Once again the old guy grinned.
“What’s that about?” Dowland asked.
“Two chances, my young man. Two offers. Still you simply pass.”
“Not quite following you.”
Bohmer nodded and then crossed his spotted, gaunt hands and placed them in his lap. He watched as Dowland wiped his forehead.
“Do you like warm weather?”
Dowland drank half of his water in a gulp. “I prefer being told why I’m here in Miami sweating like a pig.”
“No nonsense. All business. Ah, I love it. I miss men like you. I’m surrounded by eternal party people. So politically correct. Sculpted and in shape and bored with life. Bored. Can you believe that? In a place like this?”
Dowland didn’t say anything, perhaps to stress the point of being bored himself.
“I pretend, Mr. Dowland. I feign being old and bored. This isn’t my primary home, so I am honestly a bit at a loss in this place. We are both outsiders sitting on the edge of the country near the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. And both of us just want to get home. Is that right?”
“I haven’t been home in some time,” Dowland said.
“Your home—your true home—where is that again?”
“Park City.”
“Ah yes. I own a vacation house up there. Remarkable place. Wish my legs allowed me to ski.”
“Wish my job allowed me to ski,” Dowland said.
“Good topic,” Bohmer said. “Your job is exactly why I’m speaking to you today.”
“Where is Hall?”
“This conversation is above your boss’s pay grade.”
Dowland laughed. “Either I just got a very nice promotion, or I was giving Hall way too much respect.”
“How about both, Mr. Dowland?”
With a grin on his cracked and chapped lips, Bohmer tapped the table to turn on the display. An assortment of images was scattered on the screen next to them. The man cleared his throat.
“Did you know I used to be a movie producer? Years ago. Back when there was still some money to be made in Hollywood. Back when we made movies on actual film.”
“Is that how you earned your money?” Dowland asked.
Bohmer cursed. “That’s the only time in my life I lost money. And I wasn’t happy, believe me. You know the tired movie cliché of giving a character ‘one last job’? You know the kind. In movies like Unforgiven and Heat and even The Wild Bunch. One last job. That’s all. Then the hero will retire. Just one more job.”
Dowland glanced at the pool and felt tempted to jump in.
“So, Mr. Dowland. How would you like to be in one of those movies?”
“I don’t act,” he said without the slightest smile.
Bohmer laughed. “Ah, but you act every day. Right now, for instance, you’re surely doing your best to conceal your disgust with this place and my pool and my life. Perhaps my air of indifference. Of course you don’t act for a living. But what if I made this particular job that I want to talk about your last?”
Dowland studied one of the images on the table. The man in the photo could barely be distinguished. Same went for four other pictures he looked at. The figure in each photo looked like a different man.
“What if I told you I liked my job?” Dowland asked.
“Is that why your drinking has become increasingly problematic? Especially after a job is finished?”
Dowland didn’t react to the comment. “I’d ask if you’re spying on me, but I know the answer to that.”
“And I know the answer to whether you like your work or not. Being the best at something doesn’t necessarily mean you love it. Or even like it.”
“For the right price I’d quit.”
For a moment the elderly man studied him. Not sizing him up but rather seeming to observe him with both curiosity and respect.
“I know you didn’t enter the Federal Bureau of Investigation in order to murder men and women,” Bohmer said.
“I’ve never killed a woman,” Dowland quickly replied.
“It’s interesting that you didn’t contest calling it murder.”
“What final job are you proposing?”
Bohmer touched the
virtual monitor lit up on their table and tried to move one of the images. For a second the screen turned off, then turned on again, but he couldn’t get the photo to budge an inch. Bohmer cursed again. “I used to hate working on my laptops. Then they invented a microscopic strip to fit in your brain. Now all you have to do is speak or motion in a certain way and, voilà, you have virtual reality right in front of you. I had a hard enough time with so-called smartphones. Now screens have become air.”
Dowland moved over and, using his index finger, dragged the photo of the man with ease.
“Yeah, okay, it’s not rocket science, I know,” Bohmer said. “This man. The one we’re all looking for. You recognize the images, right?”
One photo simply showed a tall man with the physique and haircut of someone in the military, but it seemed to be a low-resolution picture. Dowland had studied this blurry picture just like all the rest of the photos.
“Of course,” he told Bohmer.
“Yes, yes. Of course you know who you’ve been chasing for the past year. Supposedly it’s the same man in each picture. In one shot he looks like a marine. In another he appears to be the nutty professor. What we’re beginning to suspect after our men scoured all the material you acquired on your last job—your little outing in the middle of Indiana—is that there’s not only one person calling himself the Reckoner, but there are multiple ones. Including the man you found in the motel room.”
“He was not the Reckoner.”
“He was part of a group that’s been using aliases and code names,” Bohmer said. “We discovered another name amid the data we retrieved. A man named Keith Burne. Businessman gone insane.”
The name was new to Dowland. “You guys think he could be the one?”
“He is part of a group. And as you know, they’re distributing propaganda and lies and misinformation and the usual. Circumventing security online. Managing to use old data and methods of communicating. They’ve discovered some ways that haven’t been figured out even by the so-called experts.”
American Omens Page 4