Origin - Season One

by James, Nathaniel Dean

  To make matters worse, he had no idea what was on the drive. And if that wasn’t bad enough, now he didn’t even have it.

  That Gerald could end up being a suspect had always been a possibility, and a risk he had been willing to take. Although never involved directly in the creation of Nova, Ross was the best in the field and had been consulted at one point or another by all three companies who had worked on it. Anyone questioned for long enough would eventually mention Ross. But Ross was also a genius. That much Francis had known from the start. It was the reason he had picked him in the first place. There really was no way to implicate him beyond the circumstantial. And even if the FBI had gotten around to asking him a few questions before they were shut down, a few questions was all it would ever be.

  Francis thought Ross would be all right, at least for now. Cynthia was another matter. He had only met her twice, and then only briefly. But it had been enough to see that Cynthia Ross lived only a block or two away from her next nervous breakdown, an eventuality kept at bay only by a steady regimen of mother’s little helpers. He would have to get to Cynthia, secure the drive and hide her. Ross would have to wait.

  Francis opened the closet in the bedroom, pulled out a black leather motorcycle jacket and dressed quickly. There was a Walther P22 semi-automatic pistol and two magazines in a shoebox on the floor. He put these in the inside pockets of his jacket. When he was ready, he took a final look around, then moved to the door, turned off the lights, and left the apartment.

  There was a black motorcycle leaning on its kickstand at one end of the underground parking lot. It was a GSX1300R turbocharged Suzuki Hayabusa, custom upgraded by a firm in Ohio that took on business by referral only and did not advertise. When he pushed the start button, the engine roared to life and quickly settled down to a soft purr.

  As soon as he was outside, he pulled to the side of the road and unzipped the cover on the fuel tank bag to reveal a small GPS tracker. He turned it on and waited until the icon in the top corner of the screen showed four bars, then scrolled through a touch screen menu until the words Gerald A4 appeared in a drop-down list and selected it. A moment later, the screen displayed a map showing the Vermont/New Hampshire border. A small green arrow showed the car traveling up Interstate 91 past the town of Bernardston on the Vermont side.

  Francis pulled back onto the road and took a left at the next junction. Gambling that Gerald had been smart enough to send her all the way to the border, he headed for Interstate 93, intending to cut across and reach her before she got there.

  Chapter 16

  Ipswich Bay, Massachusetts

  Monday 17 July 2006

  2030 EDT

  When he was a quarter mile from the shore, Gerald eased the throttle back and let the bow of the boat sink into the water as she lost speed and began to drift. He had turned off all her lights when he rounded Halibut Point. Now, standing in the dark, he scanned the shoreline looking for the house. He picked it out quickly as the central property in a cluster of only three on that part of the shore. No lights were on and he was too far away to make out any signs of activity. For the second time, he prayed that Cynthia had not stayed.

  It took less than a minute to inflate the lifeboat using the battery-powered pump. When the small dinghy was in the water, he tied it off and went back to the cockpit to drop anchor. Next, he went below and put on a sweater and a beanie, then packed his laptop into a watertight bag. In one of the drawers beneath the counter of the kitchenette he found a snub-nosed silver revolver. After a brief moment of hesitation, he added the box containing the flare gun.

  Half an hour later he was cursing himself for not having stopped closer to the shore. His arms ached and every time he turned to gauge his progress, land seemed further away, not closer. Another half hour passed and this time he thought the shore was getting a little closer. He had to stop and rest twice, and when he finally felt the boat begin to bob in the swells beating at the coastline, he put the oars down and let nature take care of the rest.

  Gerald stepped into the shallow water, letting the boat drift away as he walked the final few yards to dry land and dropped the bag. In front of him, a cliff face about eight feet high marked the end of his own backyard. He clambered up the wall of loose dirt and rock to get a better look at the house.

  Something moved behind him and he spun his head around, lost his footing and slid down the slope on his backside. When he looked up, a man was standing in front of him. At his feet Gerald saw the open box of the flare gun. It was now in the man’s hand and pointed at Gerald.

  “This yours?” the man asked.

  Gerald didn’t answer.

  “I’m glad you showed up, Mr. Ross. We’ve been wanting to speak to you.”

  “I don’t have it!” Gerald found himself saying before the man could ask.

  “You don’t have what?”

  “The hard drive. It’s not here. If it was, I’d give it to you, I swear.”

  “Then who does?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I was afraid you might say that.”

  The man pulled the hammer back on the flare gun. “Ever been shot with one of these?”

  “I don’t have the drive,” Gerald said again, pushing himself away until his back was against the bank.

  “Yeah, you said that. What I need to know is, who does have it? And just so we’re clear, Mr. Ross, I won’t kill you. I’ll tear your eyes out and break every bone in your body, but you’ll still be alive and I’ll still be asking.”

  Gerald believed him. Walter had been right, and coming back here had been the biggest mistake of his life. Although that wasn’t entirely true. Trusting Walter had been the biggest mistake.

  “I can tell you who took it,” Gerald said.

  “Go on.”

  “His name is Walter Scott. He’s the one who broke into the Fed. It was his idea. His plan.”

  The man studied him as if trying to decide if this was the truth or just the ramblings of a desperate man. “Some fucking friend you turned out to be. Go on. I’m listening.”

  “We’re not friends,” Gerald said. “He paid me. I helped him get around the security system, that’s all.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “Something to do with the CIA. He was going to blackmail them. That’s all I know.”

  “Where’s your wife?” the man said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “There,” the man said, as if he’d just spotted something interesting to Gerald’s right.

  “What?” Gerald said, looking around.

  “You just started lying. Things were going so well, and then you had to go and fuck it all up by lying to me.”

  The man stepped forward and reached down with his free hand. Gerald rolled to one side, scrambled to his feet, then turned and ran down the beach. Something exploded behind him. An instant later, a bright light darted past the right side of his head. It sounded like a rocket and gave off an intense wave of heat, burning the right side of his face and singeing all the hair there. Gerald screamed out in pain. A second later, the flare erupted on the beach in front of him in a blinding explosion of red.

  The bank to his right receded as Gerald ran until it was only about four feet high. He stopped and began to climb. As he reached the top and pulled himself over, a hand grabbed his foot and started to pull him back down. Gerald kicked out with his free foot, connecting with something soft that gave way under his heel. The man cursed and let go. Gerald stood up and ran toward the house. When he was halfway across the yard, he saw two men come running out of the patio doors.

  Gerald dodged to his right, but his foot slipped on the wet grass and he hit the ground. His shoulder joint dislodged with a muffled wet pop and a white-hot bolt of pain ran from his neck to his elbow. He got to his knees and reached across to his right pocket with his left hand, nudging the pistol out with his thumb. Then he picked it up, pulled back the hammer and put the barrel into his mouth.

/>   They saw him and stopped. Gerald heard the man from the beach shout something to them. His voice had a nasal quality that made him sound like he had a bad cold. They stood back, unsure what to do. One of the men who had been waiting in the house took a step forward. Gerald fixed his terrified eyes on him and shook his head.

  “Hey, that’s a really bad idea,” the man said. “We don’t want to hurt you, buddy. We just need to ask you a few questions.”

  He sounded perfectly reasonable, almost casual.

  “What do you say, pal? You put the gun down and we’ll just talk. You can keep it in your hand if you don’t trust us.”

  If he hadn’t been almost paralyzed with fear and in such severe pain, Gerald might have laughed. Instead, he closed his eyes and pictured Cynthia standing on the porch of their first home with their baby son in her arms and smiling at him. It was the way he wanted to remember her. Forgive me, he thought, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 17

  Skyline Defense

  New York, New York Monday 17 July 2006

  2100 EDT

  “Gerald Ross is dead,” Rollins said.

  Jack walked to the door and locked his office. “What?”

  “He’d been warned someone was looking for him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We caught him trying to sneak ashore at the back of the house. Rowed up in a little rubber boat. He knew about the break-in. Says he was paid to help a man named Walter Scott get into the Fed. He made a run for it and shot himself in his own backyard before we could stop him.”

  “And the drive?”

  “He said he didn’t know where it was, but I’m pretty sure he was lying. We searched the house and found the safe open in his office. One of the neighbors saw his wife leave before we arrived. I’m betting she’s taken it with her. Why else would he have shot himself, if not to protect her?”

  “Have you got a plate?”

  “Massachusetts 1 3 X P 2 7. It’s a black Audi A4 convertible.”

  “Give me twenty minutes,” Jack said. “I’ll call you back.”

  Jack left the office and walked to the lobby. When the elevator door was closed, he pressed not one button, but six in quick succession. There was a brief pause, then the elevator rose for a moment and the doors opened again.

  He stepped out into a room that occupied the entire seventy-ninth floor. The four massive steel girders that supported the building stood exposed at the edges, and the floor-to-ceiling windows were all heavily tinted, giving it the look of an enormous and sparsely furnished studio apartment. The building’s elevator shaft ran through the middle of the room. At one end, several wide office desks had been pushed together to form a long counter against the windows overlooking Central Park. It was littered from end to end with a haphazard collection of computers, screens and cables.

  “Marius, I need you to find someone for me,” Jack said.

  Marius Botha was a white South African in his mid-thirties. His face was deeply tanned and covered with freckles. He wore a thick pair of black framed glasses, the type issued by the army and commonly referred to as Rape Prevention Devices for their distinguishing lack of style. His deep Afrikaans accent often made it difficult to understand a word he was saying.

  Jack handed Marius a sheet of paper. “Black A4 convertible. Left Rockport Massachusetts about an hour and a half ago.”

  Marius took the sheet and Jack watched as he began to do what he did best.

  “What’s going on?” Marius asked finally.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  It took him just over five minutes to find Cynthia’s car.

  “This was captured an hour ago on the Blue Star Memorial Highway,” Marius said, pointing at a grainy image on one of the monitors.

  “Bring it up on a map,” Jack said.

  Marius opened a window on another screen and brought up a map of Massachusetts. He zoomed in and pointed at Interstate 495 just below the town of Lowell. Something flashed up on a third screen and Marius turned to it. “That’s it. Northbound on Interstate 91.”

  Jack took out his phone and called Rollins back. “She’s making a run for the border up I-91. Call me as soon as you find her.”

  Chapter 18

  Morisson, Vermont

  Monday 17 July 2006

  2100 EDT

  Amanda was in the driveway, leaning on the hood of her father’s prized ‘68 Chevy Impala when Jesse arrived.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said as soon as he got out.

  “I’ve missed you too, Mandy.”

  She pointed at the Volvo and raised her eyebrows. “Your mom’s station wagon? Classy!”

  When they reached the interstate, Jesse said, “So, you gonna tell me what brings you back to the Big M in the middle of the semester?”

  “I will. But not until I’ve had a drink.”

  “You drink now?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s practically illegal not to in college.”

  The parking lot at Fryer’s was almost empty. They walked through a pair of western-style saloon doors into a large room dotted with round wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Half a dozen people were sitting at the bar, most sipping bottles of beer and watching the game on TV. To the left of the door, an old jukebox was playing “Dixieland Delight” by Alabama.

  They took a table at the back of the room. Amanda went straight to the bar and returned with two glasses and a pitcher of Coors Light.

  “Bottoms up,” she said and poured each of them a glass.

  Jesse took a sip and grimaced.

  “It gets easier,” she laughed and took a long drink from her own glass.

  “Wow! You’re an alcoholic,” he said.

  The conversation began naturally enough. Reminiscences about life in what they had always called the “Big M”. Jesse told her about his job at the Herald and his decision to become a journalist, and the flamboyant Mrs. Abernathy. Amanda described her life at Penn State with increasing contempt.

  Her advice about drinking turned out to be accurate. After the first glass, Jesse found the acrid, metallic taste of the beer developing an odd appeal. He also discovered it worked wonders on the tongue. By the end of his second glass, the room had taken on a euphoric clarity in which every detail seemed to spring out at him. He felt as if the world around him had been coated in a thick layer of pure optimism. Amanda found the situation amusing; she kept looking at him with a knowing grin.

  “Someone’s in a good mood,” she said as she poured him a third glass.

  “So tell me,” he said, picking up the glass and downing half of it in a single gulp. “Why did you come back? I’d like to think you just missed me, but I doubt that’s the whole story.”

  Amanda’s face turned serious for a moment as she considered the question. “I guess you could say I fell in with the wrong crowd. I know that sounds kind of lame, but you have to be there to see how things really are. There are people with money and people without, and all the progressive politics in the world won’t change that. Behind the scenes, the class structure is as medieval as it’s always been. I can’t say nobody warned me, I just refused to believe it. I guess I’d just seen one too many bullshit movies.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I started dating a guy. Real charmer. He played varsity football and drove a BMW. Enough to make you puke, right? Anyway, his dad was a state senator. He took me to Aspen for the weekend and bought me a Rolex. Can you believe that? A fucking Rolex. His dad came up to see him and we went out for lunch. I’d like to say the bastard at least made an effort, but he turned out to be the most obnoxious prick I’ve ever met.”

  When she didn’t go on, he leaned forward and said, “What did you do?”

  “Suffered through it. When we left, I actually started crying in the car. I thought he would take my side, but the spineless shit bag actually started making excuses for him. So I told him his dad was an asshole and he –”

  She stopped and looked down at
the table.

  “He hit you,” Jesse said. It wasn’t a question. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid.

  She reached over and put a hand over his. “It wasn’t that bad. More of a slap, really. He was a bit of a pussy. I’m not making excuses out of guilt or anything. It stung a little, that’s all.”

  “What did you do?” Jesse asked. He felt like picking up the nearest chair and throwing it across the room. The fact that he was a little drunk made the idea seem perfectly reasonable, if not compulsory.

  “I got out and walked away. He followed me for a while trying to apologize. When I told him I’d be reporting him to the Dean if he didn’t leave me alone, he took the hint and left.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Back to my room. I packed my bags and took off. My dad paid for the ticket and here I am.”

  “You should have called me,” Jesse said.

  She pulled her hand back. “I should have done a lot of things. Starting with minding my own damn business.”

  “Christ, Mandy. It’s hardly your fault.”

  “I know. But like I said, I had fair warning. I even lost my only real friend when she tried to tell me what I was getting myself into.”

  Jesse reached over and took her hand again. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “But you’d seen all those movies!”

  For a moment she only looked at him, then they both started laughing.

  “You’re right, Jesse,” she said, “I should have called you.”

  Amanda offered to get another pitcher and Jesse almost agreed when he remembered he still had to drive back.

  “I’ve got to get the car home,” he said. “I don’t think getting pulled over and hit with a DUI is such a hot idea, do you?”