The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  still there?

  ANONX^17

  Yeah. I'm fine, just thinking.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  So...

  ANONX^17

  Yeah?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  Just how crazy did things get with your game this evening?

  ANONX^17

  What do you mean? Someone died, another in the hospital.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  no cops?

  ANONX^17

  No. why

  Heather moved her chair closer and stared at the screen. It wasn't like the Duke to be so dodgy about things. Something was clearly going on.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  the drivers were in the Windy City, right?

  ANONX^17

  yep whats going on?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  u see the news?

  Heather had a web crawler working all major news outlets which would immediately tell her if certain key words were mentioned. It was part of her job to ensure that the Lit Dragons stayed in the shadows, but she couldn't focus all of her attention on every news source. So far, nothing had matched the criteria enough to alert her about the games that evening.

  She opened her browser and saw that things had indeed been heating up in Chicago that evening, so much so that she was surprised she hadn't notice before. The murder of a bus driver, a shooting at O'Hare and then later in the hospital. All flights grounded, and an active manhunt for a cop killer.

  What was going on?

  She ran some searches, scanning headlines and police reports, becoming engrossed again in the data. Heather didn't notice the new message from the Duke for several seconds, and when she did, she had already seen the name of the Gazette reporter, Paul Freemont. She recognized his name, but couldn't remember from where.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  We did some sniffing around when things started heating up, tapping into police and emergency frequencies, police records, even call logs for the city buses. u saw the bus driver got shot, right?

  ANONX^17

  Yeah.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  Take a look at these.

  A message popped up with a link to a secure viewer. She clicked, and the image of two PDFs appeared, compared side-by-side. She scanned the image and saw that they were police incident reports. They detailed the shooting of a police officer, the same she'd seen in the news a few seconds before. The second report was for a woman with a name she didn't recognize. Gertrude Pettingale was also shot, in a manner that was almost identical to the police officer.

  In fact, after a few seconds of flitting between the images, she saw that the description of the incident in both reports was identical. A few seconds later, she confirmed that everything on the report was identical except for the names.

  What is this?

  Another message with another link appeared on her screen. She clicked the link and a single image appeared in the window. The police report bearing Ms. Pettingale's name was now different. The description of the shooting was partly deleted, and it looked like a new description was being inputted to the form. She toggled between the previous images and this new one, and saw that the birth dates and physical descriptions had changed, but the report number was still identical.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  u catch it.

  ANONX^17

  they're the same.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  one of the guys here just happened to be looking at the officer's police report when he noticed that it was being changed. He took a few screen shots and forwarded them over. This was a couple of hours ago. There is no longer any record of an Officer Robert Morales being shot, or even being on the Chicago pd.

  ANONX^17

  just like that

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  just like that, he's gone. thin air kind of stuff. but this gertude pettinggale does exist and was shot at the airport tonight. her body was discovered by airport personnel after the police incident report was edited.

  Heather began to tap her fingers on her desk impatiently. It wasn't like the Duke to string her along like this, and she could tell that it was leading up to something. The anxiety and near panic she'd felt during the games was compounded. The sound of her heartbeat was in her ears, and her fingers felt numb and fidgety. Heather took a sip of her tea and tried to force its calming effects on her body.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  thats not all. turns out that gertrude didn't die at all, but left on a flight out of Chicago to hartford.

  ANONX^17

  Did some one steal her passport after she was killed?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  Thats what we thought at first, but we don't think so. One of my guys confirmed that there was a body recovered matching the general description of getrude pettingale. We also tapped airport security footage of the woman posing as Ms. Pettingale. We ran her image through facial recognition and confirmed that the woman acting as Pettingale is definitely not her. Pettingale is dead, just like the report says.

  ANONX^17

  But why the switch?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  With the shooting at the airport, NDA is monitoring all calls in and out of the surrounding area. We figured that whoever changed the police report would also monitor NDA transcripts. sure enough, someone else was in system, deleting data.

  ANONX^17

  Bot?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  No, I think human. The searches and alterations were too subjective for a bot, and the data wasn't deleted, just changed. Like the police report. You delete something, and there's an empty space, but if the data is just altered, the changes hide in plain sight.

  ANONX^17

  reminds me of

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  Miami. I know, and just wait. we recovered some cell phone transcripts before they were changed. check the attached.

  The Duke sent another link containing a compressed folder. She clicked on the folder and a number of PDFs automatically extracted onto her screen. She scanned the documents in seconds and felt a chill on the back of her neck.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  did you see it? they've cropped up again.

  As soon as he typed the message, Heather saw it.

  Il Contionum. It was the name of an entity that, for all intents and purposes, didn't exist. The Contionum was a ghost, and neither Heather nor the Duke knew who they were or what they did, only that they were powerful enough to erase data that couldn't be erased, to fully disappear in a digital world when it was impossible to disappear. The few times the name had shown up had been associated with unmitigated disasters.

  The attack in Miami, hundreds dead. The collapse of a bridge in New Orleans during a category 5 hurricane, preventing thousands from evacuating and causing the deaths of hundreds. The disappearance of an airplane off the coast of Portugal (with 173 people aboard), into thin air.

  Of course, there could have been more mentions of the Contionum, but any information was slippery and tended to disappear almost as soon as it appeared.

  ANONX^17

  I see them.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  This is the first solid lead we have on this group.

  Heather saw a name that was familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She was sure that she'd heard it before, but couldn't quite remember when and where.

  ANONX^17

  Do you recognize the name Paul Freemont?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  He was the reporter in Miami... but ur probably remembering his name from the news tonight. he almost got himself killed in the hospital. original police report says he was claiming to be helping a police officer who'd been shot, who had then tried to kill him. I'll give you one guess as to who the police officer was.

  ANONX^17

  Morales. When the Miami thing went down, Freemont wouldn’t shut up. is anyone listening to hi
m now?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  as far as we can tell, no. the report on the incident says he's in shock from loss of blood. maybe the report was changed, but if it was, the changes happened before we pulled the report.

  ANONX^17

  what is going on?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  i don't know. but whatever it is, its happening fast. we stumbled on this stuff by luck, really, and if we hadn't, the cover up would have been complete.

  ANONX^17

  like Miami.

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  like Miami.

  Heather continued to scan. There were multiple references to a girl, and whoever had been speaking about her was doing very well at not mentioning her name. But almost all the calls listed on the transcript mentioned the girl at least once. She was the focus of most of the conversations, and although she couldn't read emotion into any of the written transcripts, Heather thought that the almost constant back and forth about "the girl" was frantic.

  ANONX^17

  Who's the girl?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  We don't know, but we're working on it now. keep reading tho. She seems to have been part of this group for a very long time. We'll find her, and it won't take long. its not looking good.

  ANONX^17

  Why?

  DukE_of_DarkNEss_83

  Keep reading. They're not just looking for her. they want her dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Several weeks passed with Paul in a haze induced by pain killers and a constant fear that gnawed at him during his waking hours, turning his dreams to nightmares. When he was awake, every shadow was Officer Morales returning to finish the job. And while he slept, he was running from an unseen force of darkness that never stopped hunting him. Paul was fully aware that he was dabbling at the edges of insanity, but he felt like there wasn't anything he could do. The insanity was inevitable, an undercurrent that already existed in his mind, ready to burst free.

  Morales' bullet had nicked the bone in Paul's leg, sending splinters of bone into his muscles and bloodstream. After removing the bullet, the surgeons spent the better part of week digging through his legs to remove the fragments of bone, during which time Paul slipped in and out of consciousness. He dreamt of his ex-wife and riding bikes with her through the hills of the mountain town in which he grew up. When the dreams went bad, as they so often did, he dreamt of running through underground parking garages, dodging shadows and bullets. He dreamt of pain and fear and paranoia.

  After his surgeries, Paul was kept in the hospital (just down the hall from where Morales had been holed up), until he was able to walk with a cane. He hated the physical therapy and thought the therapist was the devil incarnate, but he worked hard. Although the doctors and therapists were convinced he would once again be able to walk without a cane, some day far in the future, they told him that his leg would be permanently damaged. Paul would walk, but never run. It was an injury he would carry with him for the rest of his life. So far, the mental damage seemed worse than the leg, and Paul couldn't decide which was worse to carry on as baggage.

  Dennis was Paul's only visitor, and he came every few days to sit next to Paul's bed and give updates on the daily on goings at the Gazette, and relayed the status on stories they were working on together. They never spoke about the night Paul was shot, or how it might relate to Paul's theories on what had happened in Miami. Paul did his best to not even think about that night, or Miami, or anything else that would get him shot again. He wanted to put that night and his theories to rest, once and for all. It was this investigation, this obsession, with the incident in Miami that had cost him his marriage and family, and now his leg and possibly his sanity.

  On the day Paul was discharged from the hospital, the nurse brought a shoebox sized plastic container into his room. At the moment, Paul was sitting up in his bed, watching reruns of Frasier on the old television. He smiled at the nurse as she entered, and then cocked an eyebrow when he noticed the container she was carrying. She set it on his bed and started pulling items, laying them on the mattress by his feet.

  "These are the items you had on your person when you arrived at the hospital," she said and then pointed to a pile of neatly folded rags.

  "Your clothes are here. They were cut from your body so they aren't much use as clothes anymore, and we couldn't get the blood stains out. But some people get upset when they hear we threw away their ruined clothes, so here you go. They're clean, just stained and ragged."

  Paul chuckled despite the sick feeling that rose in his gut at the sight of the blood splatters. His blood, or Morales'? He wondered, but then decided he didn't want to know.

  "You can toss the clothes. I can't think of why I'd want to keep them," his voice quavered despite his efforts to remain steady.

  "That's what I thought," the nurse said and set aside the bundle. "We've also got your keys here, wallet, some chap stick, and a flash drive."

  "Well thank you for hanging on to this stuff," Paul smiled warmly at the nurse, who blushed. She was a younger woman with a pretty face, despite the stress lines and creases that were developing. As she blushed, he could see past the hardened exterior that was necessary for a nurse in Chicago, and he saw playfulness that was very attractive.

  "To be honest, I don't know if I would have missed these things until I got to my car and needed my keys, or the store and needed my wallet."

  "Most people forget about the stuff they came in with, which is understandable especially when you get shot."

  "Yeah, well that's certainly true."

  "We also have your briefcase," she said and lifted the small leather case to the bed, which he hadn't seen her bring into the room. Paul could see the dried smears of blood and water on side, staining the leather. A chill ran down his spine and the place where he'd been shot began to throb. In the commotion of the previous weeks, with the surgeries and therapy, he'd forgotten about Morales' briefcase. He stared at the nurse and the briefcase, remembering that night in more detail than he cared for. A flood of emotions swept over him and he felt the same fear and paranoia that he'd been working so hard to put behind him.

  The nurse shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable with his silence.

  "The briefcase was jammed open when you were brought into the hospital, but we didn't open it," she said tentatively. "We had one of the tech guys who do maintenance in the hospital fix it, and it latches now. I hope you don't mind."

  "No, I don't mind."

  "Okay, well all your stuff is here. I've got your discharge papers, and you're all set. Do you have someone picking you up?"

  "Yes," Paul said, but his mind was far away, thinking about the woman he was supposed to have met on that bus, at the beginning of all this—"

  "Okay then," she said, cutting through the silence. "It's been nice to know you, Mr. Fremont. I wish you a swift recovery, and hope you stay out of trouble in the future. You know, and not get shot."

  The corners of her mouth turned up coyly in that same playful smile he'd found so charming only a few minutes before. When he didn't return the smile, or even acknowledge her goodbye, she nodded and left the room, leaving Paul to his thoughts.

  ***

  Dennis picked Paul up from the hospital and they drove in near silence to the hotel where Paul kept a room. Dennis pulled up to the curb and held out his hand for Paul to shake.

  "Buddy, glad to see you on your feet. I'll be glad to have you back at work here soon too."

  "Not on my feet yet," Paul grumbled and nudged the plain metal cane his therapist had give him.

  "You know what I mean."

  Paul opened the door and was hit with an icy blast of wind. He shivered, realizing that it had been several weeks since he'd been outside in the cold. Even so, he was getting sick of this winter.

  "I think I'm moving to Florida," Paul said and climbed out of the car, grunting as he swung his leg onto the icy sidewalk.

  "When are you
going to get a real apartment like a normal person?" Dennis asked. "You might feel better if you had a home to go home to."

  "I like the turn down service," Paul shrugged. He gathered his tiny bundle of things, and the brief case, and stood on the sidewalk, leaning heavily on his cane.

  "Coming into work tomorrow?"

  "I don't know. Probably not."

  "I'll let the editor know then," Dennis said, sighing. "Take care, Paul."

  "You too. Thanks for the ride."

  Paul closed the car door and watched as Dennis drove away. For the first time in several weeks, Paul felt very alone. He didn't want to think about the briefcase nor what was inside, wanted to toss them into the trash can on his way back inside, but on the other hand, he couldn't stop thinking about it. The briefcase seemed important to Morales, so he figured there had to be something worthwhile in there.

  He walked toward the entrance of the Hotel Monoco, eyeing the trash can as he passed.

  Throw it away, get rid of it, his mind screamed. The part of his mind that didn't want to be involved anymore. The part that didn't want to be shot and killed.

  Maybe just one look, he thought. Not going to get involved, just one look, and then be done with this whole mess and move on with his life.

  ***

  Paul's room was exactly as he'd left it. Stacks of papers and research covered most surfaces. A half empty bottle of Wild Turkey on the counter in the kitchenette, standing next to an unopened full bottle. His bed was neatly made, and his clothes had been hung in the closet.

  He set his things on the table and opened the brief case. The papers were a jumbled mess inside, some wrinkled and bent, and most stained with drops of blood. Paul took the papers and stacked them on the table. He examined the now empty briefcase for any hidden zippers or pockets on the cloth interior, but didn't find anything.

  Paul turned back to the papers, straightened the stack, and stared at the first blood-splattered piece of paper. The first page was an email, the sender and recipient’s addresses encrypted. The subject line simply read GODMEN. Most of the text in the body of the email was smeared and unreadable. He could make out only a few words and phrases, none of which made any sense. Paul took a deep breath, then stood and poured himself a glass of the bourbon.