by Therin Knite
Since this car ride will be the last taste of freedom I have in the next several months to years, I decide to make the best of it. I maneuver my Ocom out from underneath my useless arm (and keep it concealed in my sling). With Williams spirited away, the only tactic I have left to find out the identity of the Manson killer is to use Williams’ name to access her profile so I can leaf through her contacts and message history. If I’m very lucky, the man will be a frequent contact whose identity as the Manson killer will strike me as obvious and commonsense. If I’m less lucky, I’ll have to read through her messages, using the dates and content to figure out who the most likely candidate is. If Lady Luck has flipped me the bird for all I pulled last night, then Williams’ profile will be inaccessible.
Pretending to scratch my in-sling arm, I pull up the IBI’s profile database and plug in Williams’ surname.
Forty-four. The IBI database has forty-four female entries on the name. There’s one single profile not listed under standard IBI access. It’s labeled “Williams, R. – Restricted.” No mention of her first name. No way for me to access her contacts or her past messages or her private images or anything else that would be useful in discovering who her murderous lover is. Yet again you fail me, IBI.
It’s odd though. Even with her upper-class connections, for someone like Williams to obtain such a high level of profile restriction is unheard of. No doubt it was a protective gift from her powerful mystery lover. One she used to the fullest extent: hiring an assassin with an untraceable call.
Fatigue and irritation start to erode my willpower to solve this damn case, but right as I feel ready to throw in the towel, a novel idea strikes me. Williams hasn’t been seeing this man forever. And it’s highly unlikely he upgraded her profile restriction on the first date. Which means there must be pre-restriction call records with her name attached in the IBI’s National Call Record Database—records of calls between her and her lover. If I can get Williams’ full name, I can search through her old calls. I can narrow down the suspects to a handful of possibilities. And once I do, the right one should stick out like a sore thumb: the man with the most power.
All I need is Williams’ first name. But how do I get it?
After a few minutes of quiet contemplation—in which I double check to make sure the Director is still more interested in what’s outside the car than in it—I select compose message in the corner of my Ocom screen and address it to someone I’ve written to at least ten thousand times before but never in this way. I’m sorry ends up in sixteen places. I should have told you, and I know better is included at the opening and the close. And in the middle is a request I’m sure will be denied by someone who has every right to deny it:
When you were dancing with that woman at Club Valkyrie, did she tell you her name?
My throat tightens at the realization that Jin spent an hour wrapped in the arms of a woman who’s dating a killer, a woman who called an assassin on me. Jin came so close to falling over the cliff into the fiery hellhole that is the Manson case, and here I am dragging him to the edge again. But all I need is one detail, and it may be on the tip of his tongue. Jin might save the day. If he decides to help. I may have tossed him over a completely different sort of cliff.
The reply appears in my inbox two minutes later. My finger doesn’t want to click it, but I force it down, and the message opens to reveal a single word. No silly banter. No joking Your Love valediction. No greeting. Nothing except the answer to my question. Jin is furious with me, but even in his darkest hours, he cannot tell me no.
A flood of relief washes out the tension in my muscles—my friendship isn’t over yet.
So, with a party picture smile in mind, I read Jin’s one-word answer to the question that will catch a killer.
Ms. Williams’ first name is Regina.
* * *
Anyone could have made the same mistake, Regina thinks. There are so many files on one’s Ocom. All it takes is a single click to direct one toward the wrong person. No big deal, usually. A friend who receives an intimate photo meant for a lover will laugh it off. A parent who opens a message to find a recording of his teenage child’s triple dog dare attempt gone wrong will issue a fine grounding decree and be done with it. A lawyer, however, who’s cataloguing his post-case files and locates what amounts to the prize of the century, may not be so indifferent.
Four hours of dialing and redialing go by before Whitford answers with an exasperated huff. “Regina, sweetie. I know I promised we’d talk more often, but I’m in Moscow, for gods’ sakes. Do you know what time it is here?”
“I made a mistake.”
“Pardon?”
She pens silent pleas on the bare surface of Lionel’s old desk, tracing a strange indent in the wood. Its origin floats slowly to the surface of her memories: the corner of his Ocom battered and beaten day after day as he watched his favorite sports teams lose their games. He needed a new tablet every other month. “I sent a file to Victor. It was an accident. I must have clicked on it without realizing. I should have organized my folders more carefully. I’m an idiot. I’m a—”
“Gina, sweetie, stop it. You’re falling back into that mood again. You know what your therapist said about blaming yourself for stupid accidents.”
“This was not a stupid accident. I sent Victor a copy of the conversation we had two days after…after.”
Whitford says nothing. Breathes nothing. Is nothing. Her eyes reread the connected status six times in a row before she dares to believe he hasn’t hung up on her. Two minutes of perceptible contemplation pass before the man on the other end inhales his frustrations and exhales frozen remedies. “If I know Manson as well as I think I do, then it’ll be about four days or so before he goes public with the information. He likely believes you won’t notice the mistake until far too late, so he’ll wait to collect more evidence from the case material before releasing his entire theory to the highest-paying news channel he can find. By doing so, he’ll believe himself safe from retribution. If he ends up disbarred or dead after everyone’s been informed your partner died ‘due to’ an affair with me, then his demise will simply be another nail in your coffin. And mine.”
“So we have four days? That’s it?”
“No worries. I’ll only need three.”
“Three to what?”
“Get rid of the problem.”
A fine-tipped nail cracks in half on the Ocom groove, hot pink polish chips dirtying the memories of a half-cracked partner. Regina watches the blood pool on the tip of her finger. “You’re not going to kill him, are you?”
“I’m afraid we have no alternative. Manson is aware that the press will pay him anything he asks for information of such a juicy caliber. He’ll probably retire with what they give him and go hide out in the Keys to escape any consequences from breaching client confidentiality.”
“How are you going to manage it?”
“I have my methods. Don’t you worry about it, Gina. I’ll be on the next flight back to Columbia.”
She tucks the damaged finger between her teeth, tongue stemming the red flow. “What should I do?”
“Carry on as usual. Go to Valkyrie. Make a patron bid. You’ve been wanting to for months. You’ll gain a nice entourage. It’ll help you rebuild confidence.”
“I have confidence.”
“In public, yes. But you break down as soon as the front door closes behind you. You need your friends and associates to help get you back on your feet in the private world. You need trust.”
“I trust you.”
“I don’t count. I’m your imaginary, absolutely nonexistent adulterous lover, remember?”
“Whitford Brennian, don’t you tease me in a situation like this!”
A hearty laugh dampens the fear in the darkened master bedroom. “Gina, this is not the first time I’ve had to deal with situations involving corrupted assets. Nor, I imagine, will it be the last.”
“Well, it’s the first time I’ve had to dea
l with one. And I hope it will be the last. Lionel’s been dead and buried for months, yet I still can’t get away from him. Why won’t he just leave me alone?”
“Because he was a spiteful ass who hated admitting defeat even when he engaged in unwinnable battles with titans. If there is an afterlife, Lionel is the kind of man who’ll do his best to torment the living from it. But if I have to dig him up and burn his bones to end him, I will do it. Outdated gasoline can and all—Oh, Lord. What does that bastard want now?”
“What? What’s going on?”
“Sorry, love. I’ve got a call from Briggs. We’ll have to pick this up later. I’ll call you from the plane and tell you more about the taking-care-of-Manson plan, all right? Don’t sweat over it. I’ll have his whole life, unfortunate evidence included, up in smoke by Friday. Promise.”
Regina stifles a sniff, pretending to reclaim the mountain of pride Lionel bulldozed on...that day. “Okay. That’s acceptable, I suppose.”
“That’s the spirit.” He hangs up, her Ocom registering the disconnect with a sad-toned ding. She watches the blinking call ended message until the screen dims from disuse. The bedroom seems to respond by brightening of its own accord; it hasn’t gained sentience though. It doesn’t need to. Missy is capable of turning on the lights herself, which she tends to do while searching the house for her missing mistress.
“Ma’am, you’ve got a Cordette Wiggins waiting outside. Says you invited her to tonight’s Trifecta Runway Show. You haven’t been answering your messages again, it seems.”
There are four increasingly impatient voice messages from the so-called invitee, all vying for Regina’s small helping of attention. “Tell her I’ll be ready in five. I wouldn’t want to miss the winter collections. I have nothing to wear, you know, to keep me cheery in this bleary weather.”
“Yes, ma’am. I know.”
* * *
“Judging by the look on your face, I suppose it’s safe to say you’ve finally realized?”
Director Whitford Brennian lies for a living. He tricks the Columbian IBI office into thinking the world is coming to an end. He blinds all those that care for him to his callous incapacity to care for them. He sits across from trusting favorites and spews stories about jetlag and finagling his way out of requirements. And all the while he’s having chats with the accomplice to his crimes in plain view of watching eyes. Because he can get away with it.
“By the way, you need to watch those involuntary reconstructions. You were out of it for several minutes. That’s dangerous and—”
“It was you,” I say. “All along.”
A nod. “Sure was. And still is.” He picks a stray thread off his pant leg and tosses it in the backseat cup holder with disgust. Meticulous. Neat. Obsessed with perfection. Everything the Manson killer is and more. And I missed all the signs. I sat down and ate ice cream with this man yesterday, never for a second suspecting that some of his details didn’t add up.
My eyes flick to the window, heart rate quickening.
I’m not scared.
I’m hurt. I’m enraged. I’m frustrated.
The traffic has thinned into nonexistence, and we’ve left the city behind us. I was so engrossed in searching for a single answer that I missed the multitude of clues around me. We’ve been heading nowhere that makes sense for Brennian to take me. There’s nothing for miles but a bunch of dingy factories and…a private airfield.
“Where are we going?”
“You know,” he says. “I can see the gears working in your head.”
“To the airfield. Why?”
“We’re going on a trip. Since poor Regina messed up so badly, it’ll only be a matter of time before EDPA puts the pieces together and makes the logical jump to me. Sufficed to say, I need to skip town and go somewhere the feds can’t find me.”
I position myself as far away from him as possible, scrambling for ideas. I could disengage the auto-drive. Spring for the controls and push the damn button. We’re going a hundred fourteen miles per hour. We’ll die on impact with whatever we hit. No chance for survival. Suicide? Yes. But also successful at stopping the calm, calculating killer from escaping scot-free.
“Don’t bother,” he says. “I’ve bio-locked the car controls. I know you well enough to guess your first few ideas, Adem. The suicidal ones you initially think up and the more reasonable ones that follow: calling for help on your Ocom, knocking me out, and waiting for the car to stop, then running for it.”
My throat goes dry.
“Am I right?”
He’s five, six, seven moves ahead of me. His early return from Moscow to kill Manson was plotted, planned, and executed without a single flaw. I never noticed any discrepancies in his behavior. There were none. Without the link to Regina Williams, Brennian would have gotten away with killing Victor Manson. How many other people has he murdered? How many cases have gone unsolved and been swept under rugs of government authority?
Brennian scoots closer to me, patting my leg, and I recoil like his touch is acidic. His response is a smile of pure pity. “No need to be frightened, Adem. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You tried to kill me.” I’m not afraid.
“In the dream? I wasn’t trying to kill you. I’d been informed that wounding crosses tends to make them wake up from the dream. I wanted you out while I dealt with Chamberlain. Unfortunately, my good mentor neglected to tell me that my dream would collapse if I suspended the laws of physics. I’ve learned from that mistake.”
The admission comes out of left field and strikes me on my blind side. Behind Brennian is a looming shadow, a lion sneaking through the grass, waiting to pounce. The Director is the killer, and beyond the killer is someone else. Logic dictates this someone is many, many times more dangerous. “And who is this mentor?”
“Not someone from EDPA, if that’s what you’re thinking. They aren’t the only ones with knowledge of how to make a dream come to life.”
The car turns off the highway and onto a deserted road leading to the small private airfield that closed for service years ago. As we approach the open hangar doors, I spot a compact, expensive jet waiting to be rolled out onto the tarmac. Four men loiter around the empty lot, waiting for us to arrive.
“Who? Who else knows?”
“Sorry. Not naming names around you yet. You’ll meet him soon enough. We’re going to one of his safe houses. Bit of a long flight though.”
We come to a smooth stop.
“Why are you taking me with you?”
Is that really a question? Brennian asks with a stern look. “Don’t forget who you are, now, Adem. Seventh smartest person on this planet, according to your intelligence score. Possessor of the incredible ability to create real dreams. And I’m taking you to someone involved with echoes? Gee, what could I possibly want you for?”
The door on his side slides open, but mine remains locked until two of Brennian’s men are in a position to prevent any wild delusions I have of escape from becoming reality. They haul me from the car, a quick hand snatching the Ocom out of my sling, my feet scraping the ground as I’m dragged backward. Some barrier of composure in my brain shatters, and I start flailing, my heart going berserk, my mind going blank.
I’m not scared.
I’m terrified.
“Adem, stop struggling,” says the betrayer. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” When I don’t listen, he cups my cheek and sighs. “I sometimes forget you’re still a child in many respects. So intelligent, but your mother’s death really screwed you up, didn’t it?”
“Don’t touch me, you two-faced motherfucker!” I manage to kick one of the lackeys in the groin, but he doesn’t go down. Instead, his hand grips my injured shoulder and squeezes. White hot pain surges up my neck, knocking what little sense remains right out of me.
The Director steps back, a hint of alarm in his expression. “You have a violent side. I’ll have to train that out of you.” He motions for another goon standing off to the right
to come forward. “Knock him out. A two-hour dose. I don’t want him figuring out our flight path and finding some harebrained way to communicate it to someone. He’s too smart to be left to his own devices.”
Tugging a syringe from his pocket, the selected man approaches. One of the men subduing me wrenches my neck to the side to clear a path for the sedative. My arms are pinned in place, and my feet don’t have enough power to destabilize either of the two trained guards. Pathetic physical performance, scolds the Dynara in my head.
“I’ll be thirty minutes tops,” says Brennian to someone I’m not in a position to see. “Make sure we’re ready to go on the second. I’m just taking out the trash. No reason to ruin a perfect getaway.”
Cool metal presses against my exposed neck, and the bastard holding the syringe grins as he hits the button. A sharp pain gives way to a heavy cloudiness that saturates my bones. An every-color blur replaces my limited world view, followed by a rush of darkness from the corners of my eyes. As my consciousness drifts away, I half-hope, half-worry that Jin received the one-word reply to his one-word reply that I typed without looking while falling to pieces before the man I believed was one of my only two friends in the world.
Help.
Chapter Fifteen
The dream has changed. Pennimore Street greets me with the same dime-a-dozen luxury homes, the same pools and pretty patios, the same abandoned play park. But today, an artificial sun beams down on me from its place in a mild blue sky. The streetlights are dark and the sidewalks are silent, but the road they skirt tells a thousand tales. And the theme of them all is murder. Where a standard two-lane suburban street used to be is a wide, four-lane highway. It stretches from the cul-de-sac to the end of the neighborhood. And beyond.
This world has an edge. It must’ve always been there, but Pennimore Dream at night was indistinguishable from its reality. Now, I can see a clear-cut ridge that overlooks an endless black pit. It’s as if the area was carefully sliced out of the Earth and suspended in deep space. The highway continues on over the black abyss and connects to another swatch of floating land several miles away. Pennimore Street’s sister island is a select few buildings from downtown Washington.