My job entails investigation, so once I'm dressed I locate my laptop and pull up the Internet. My apartment is a little too bright as the late afternoon sun pierces through the SDP window—and I thought SDPs were supposed to filter out most of the sunlight like a pair of shades. While I wait for access into the agency's secure server, which can take up to five minutes, I close the shutters to block out the sunlight completely.
My apartment is dark now as evening approaches. The penthouse is one large open area so that there are no walls separating anything except for the bathroom. The kitchen connects to the sitting area, which in turn connects to my bedroom. The bathroom is through a door next to my bedroom. All are neat and tidy, cleaned thoroughly once a week by a maid provided free of charge by the hotel.
An exercise bike stands sentry by the front door. I use it twice a day to stay in tip-top shape. I have one of the largest digital screens on the market, which I have hooked up to my laptop. A glass safe locked with a digital cipher overlooks my king-sized bed and conceals all of my guns, from my pistols for everyday use to my assault rifles I only equip in extreme situations. Like all residences of those individuals working for the government, a portrait of the Chancellor hangs on one of the main walls. I pray to it every morning before the Purge whenever I'm home.
I return to the couch and turn my eyes towards the digital screen opposite of me. The loading bar has almost reached the end. I consider what I know about Dr. Cato so far.
She has two jobs. She works as a physician at the Paradise Municipal Hospital and as a researcher at BioLife. Her specialty at BioLife pertains to the study of diseases and how various pharmaceuticals affect them.
I finally gain access to the secure network. The digital screen flashes the emblem of the Secret Police and a cool, female voice asks me which page I would like to navigate.
"Intelligence database," I speak aloud to the voice-automated screen.
"One moment," the voice replies and then the page that I requested appears almost instantly.
"Pull up any files about Dr. Emilia Cato," I request before the voice can ask me.
"Any specific files?"
"Everything about her career at Paradise Municipal Hospital."
The computer searches the database and I listen to a cadence of beeps. "There are numerous files pertaining to the subject in question. I'll separate them into groups referencing background information, vital stats, career achievements, work schedule, and known associates."
"Do it," I say.
It takes just a brief moment before the files are separated. The computer wasn't lying when it said that there are numerous files focusing on Dr. Cato that are found in the agency's catalogs. Her renown is legendary and the agency always keeps a close eye on those who are famous. They don't want anyone to become too famous.
"Pull up her work profile," I request.
"Accessing background information right now."
The database retrieves a webpage from the official site of the hospital, showcasing Dr. Cato's profile. Personal information that Sophia verified earlier appears but I use the laptop's touch pad to scroll down. I sift through her biography with my eyes, highlighting the essential stuff inside my mind. I'm reminded of her contributions towards strengthening the effectiveness of the Purge, as well as introduced to new facts when I pull up encrypted files that normal visitors to the hospital's website can't view. According to her psych profile when she was hired, she had a high mental resistance to the Purge. She was labeled as likely to allow her emotions to manifest unexpectedly and was almost not hired. It makes sense why she would work so diligent on developing a stronger Purge.
I glance over her career achievements and find nothing I wasn't aware of already there. Every life she saved, every cutting edge surgery she performed, and every new medication she endorsed were archived in various media sources. Reading newspapers or watching news segments was how I mostly learned about the woman who gave birth to me while growing up.
Next, I take a look at her work schedule, something I'm already kind of familiar with. On Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, she works twenty-four hour shifts at the hospital. She's normally off work on Mondays and Saturdays and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she spends some time at BioLife. When she's heading an important project, she exclusively works at BioLife instead of the hospital until the project is completed.
The list of her known associates contains names I've heard of, such as Dr. Greyson Prescott, a notable physician who found himself listed alongside Dr. Cato in several publications. I make a copy of this list to peruse later in case I come across any other names during my investigation. I save it to my hard drive and then I have the computer search for files concerning Dr. Cato's work for BioLife.
As with the notes on her medical career, details about her life as a researcher are also extensive. Here, I'm more concerned about the products she patented for the pharmaceutical market. The updated form of the Purge remains her crowning achievement, due to the vital role it plays in our society. She also developed a truth serum, as a part of the Veritas Initiative. I've caught wind of the application of the serum to prisoners that refuse to tell the truth in court. I've never witnessed it in action though because most criminals end up spilling the peas—or is it beans—eventually.
Filtering through encrypted files, I obtain data about her current project. She was assigned with the arduous task of finding a cure to the updated cancer, which can ravage a person diagnosed with it within a month or two. The mortality rate is the highest of any disease the human race has ever encountered. She was studying the disease, trying to figure what causes it—genetics, exposure to harmful impurities, a bad reaction to medicine. Prior to her arrest, she already ruled out genetics as possible contributing factor because of how children are conceived nowadays. The process that the government uses to select suitable candidates for mating is flawless. Sporadically, bad seeds are produced, but these bad seeds have an exceptional genetic composition that fortifies intelligence, fitness, immunity to most diseases, conditioning, and life span. That's why the SAFE rebels are formidable foes and why it's not easy to destroy them. They're just as smart and resourceful as we are. Plus, they have willpower.
I close the records on Dr. Cato and I watch the copy of the vid I acquired from the cops at the crime scene. I search the brief recording for any clues, anything I might've missed earlier. I'm very thorough and I always have to double and sometimes triple check my work. I don't notice anything out of the ordinary during my second viewing. Just like before, Dr. Cato sits at a table with a shadowy companion, who's either the Entity himself or one of his associates. They talk and then she hands over the locked envelope.
This happened three days ago, which is more than enough time for the Entity to filter the content out through various channels. Three days ago . . . Wait a moment . . . .
Three days ago was a Friday, which means that Dr. Cato was supposed to be working a double shift at the hospital. So why was she at a bar?
This is worth looking into, although Dr. Cato has already confirmed her guilt. Was I hearing things or did she blatantly say, when asked about the envelope she presented to her cohort: "Information vital to the success of SAFE in the upcoming war." Something was inside of that envelope that can change everything and Dr. Cato was there inside that bar on Friday.
But yet I phone the hospital anyway.
"Connect me to administration," I say to the receptionist who answers my call. "My name is Agent Liam Cato with the Secret Police. It's imperative that I speak to someone with access to employee time cards."
"One moment."
Silence. No music plays like in the old days while I wait to be connected to administration. Then, a male's voice comes through my end of the phone, static and flat like it should be.
"This is Oliver Bailey. I am the administrative assistant here at Paradise Municipal. Before we begin, I require confirmation of your agent status."
"Liam Cato, badge ID W9LL91M dash 31TO.
"
"Verifying," the administrative assistant tells me. "Confirmed. What are you seeking, Agent Cato?"
"I need you to pull up the time card records you have for Dr. Emilia Cato."
"Your mother?" He asks me.
He must have seen Dr. Cato's name listed when he verified my badge ID. The government is big on not hiding the parental heritage of all citizens. They want it known that only those with the best genes produce offspring suitable for society. This backfires when the offspring ends up a criminal, or even worse when the parent commits an offense.
"Yes," I say, ignoring his previous words. "I seek confirmation that she worked last Friday."
"Got it pulled up for you. Yes, Dr. Cato did work on Friday. A double shift like usual."
"Any breaks? If so, when?"
"Let's see here." I hear clicking, which means he's using a manual mouse. "Dr. Cato took two one-hour breaks Friday. The first was at noon and the second was at six that evening. Anything else?"
"That will be all."
I end the phone call and consider what I've just learned. Dr. Cato was present in that bar Friday afternoon around three, yet she took both of her breaks at different times. She can't be in two places at once so there's a deeper mystery here. Something's going on here and I can't make any sense of it at all.
I'm trying to wrap my head around this, to connect the dots like any good agent would, when my cell phone buzzes on the sofa next to me. I pick it up and regard the display. It's Sophia. I plan to tell her about the vid and how the footage doesn't coincide with Dr. Cato's breaks. She can provide her expertise on the matter. After all, two heads are better than one.
"Cato," I answer the phone with my typical greeting, even though I know it's my partner.
"Liam, we have to get to BioLife as soon as possible. We have another high priority investigation."
"What's happened at BioLife?"
"Noah Emerson, a member of Parliament, was murdered earlier today."
Chapter Seven, Part One
Charlotte
Currently Listening To: "Lost in Paradise" by Evanescence
"Can I not come with you?" Abigail asks me after dinner. I'm cleaning up the few dishes we used. My father wasn't strong enough to come downstairs, so I saved a plate for him. I've asked Abigail to feed him for me when he wakes up from his latest nap, but she has other plans in mind apparently.
I shake my head. "No," I respond to her question, speaking loud enough so that she can hear me over the sound of the running water. "I have to run a few errands. I won't be too long."
"I thought you said that you didn't have any courier duties today?" Abigail points out, recalling our conversation during dinner.
"I don't," I reply. "I have some other errands to run."
"Like picking up groceries and stuff, right? So, I can come then?"
"I said no," I declare, a little too forcibly. I feel terrible the moment the words are out of my mouth. Abigail didn't deserve my reaction. Normally, I'm really kind to her because she hates it when I'm upset. But I've had a trying day and she's still too young to notice when it's the wrong time to push my buttons. She's so innocent and full of live, her glass of optimism always overflowing. I wish I was still like her but optimism for me ran dry years ago.
Abigail falls silent, appalled that I practically yelled at her. She brings over an empty cup and drops it into the sink. It hits the suds hard, like I did when I jumped into the Utopia River, and splashes me with a little water.
She doesn't apologize for it. She doesn't have to because I need to.
"I'm sorry," I say, looking into the face of a smaller version of me. It's like looking into a mirror that shows the past. Abigail has the same hairstyle that I wore at her age—a sideways ponytail with her long black hair swept forward delicately over her right shoulder. She has hazel eyes like me, but hers are a little greener. She's tall and thin just like me, with arms that are just a little too long to be considered normal. Abigail has a few freckles dotting her nose and her hair is a lot straighter than mine; the only noticeable differences between the two of us other than age. I usually wear my hair in loose curls because I can never tame what I like to call a lion's mane.
Abigail's birth was a . . . surprise. I guess since my parents produced twins together—an extremely rare phenomenon nowadays since birth rate is monitored—the government brought them together again three years later to create another child. This is also a very unusual feat, as parents outside of marriage rarely return to BioLife to add to the island's population. Most married couples don't even have two kids, let alone three. I sometimes wonder why my family is special. Genetically, I feel that my parents' three children are average, with no exceptional talents. Maybe I'm just being modest but Abigail is the only one out of the three of us who's really intelligent. I'm street smart (I think that's what it's called) but I perform poorly in several subjects at school. Scarlett did all right in school as well before her arrest. So, what's so special about my family? My mom died of cancer. My father has cancer. My fraternal twin sister is in jail. I'm a criminal well on my way to jail too. And Abigail is . . . well, Abigail. She's our family's only hope at doing something significant.
Abigail stares at me but she doesn't reply. It's as if she's searching my face for something. It's difficult for her to detect my anxiety, my fear, my stress, and a plethora of other negative emotions concealed inside of me. But she's clever, so I know she suspects that something is wrong.
"I just . . . I have to do something," I continue after the awkward silence that ensued between my apology and now. "I need you to stay here and keep an eye on Dad for me. I'll be right back."
Abigail nods, although her hopes of venturing outside this evening are crushed. Looking after our father is a huge responsibility but Abigail can do it. She's a bright kid with a giant ambition to become the scientist that finally creates a cure to the Black Death. She may not be the first one though; I think bitterly when I remember what my father told me earlier. Maybe this Dr. Cato woman and Dr. Prescott can come up with something soon. I really wish they weren't interested in my father but in a way it makes sense. If I was one of them, I would probably wish to study the person who has lived the longest with the disease as well. From my current point of view, however, I can't see the rationality behind the decision, although I understand it. Bottom line: I don't want to see the rationality, not with my father's life hanging in the balance.
I finish washing the dishes and Abigail helps me put them away. She doesn't say much to me, which causes me to think an awful lot about BioLife. Chills run up and down my spine when I continue to see Emerson's dead body over and over again, like a scene in a movie on forever repeat. And all of the blood . . . Then, the cops pursuing me. I'm still surprised that I eluded capture. That jump off of the balcony—what was I thinking? I could have died but I had no other choice. It was either jump or face our strict legal system, where all it takes is one tiny piece of evidence to condemn a person to a lengthy sentence behind bars.
When the last bowl is placed inside the tiny cupboard, I change clothes and take my leave.
The sun slowly sinks in the evening sky, which is an array of colors ranging from orange to purple. I'm to meet one of the Entity's associates at a bar across town but first I head to my secret place with a backpack in tow. The backpack hides the bloody clothes and blond wig, as it would have looked strange for me to drag a trash bag down the street. The locked envelope is tucked away inside of my jacket.
I cross the old train tracks in a derelict train yard, located a few blocks away from my house. The tracks crisscross throughout various parts of the island, as trains were the primary mode of group transportation before the introduction of the monorail system. In a place like Paradise, train yards seem out of place somehow, outdated compared to modern technological marvels. In fact, most train yards are abandoned nowadays. Only the homeless wander to places like these, brave people who have chosen self-exile over faithfully serving out
government. With the sparse traffic to this area, it's a perfect place to hide my stash of illegal stuff.
I find the manhole cover easy enough because I've been coming and going from here for years. The top is heavy but I know the trick to sliding it open. Staring down through the dark opening, I drop my backpack into the hole. It lands with a soft thud. I slowly descend the ladder below, after pulling the cover mostly back over the hole. Once I reach the bottom, I step down onto solid ground and click on the flashlight that I brought along for the adventure.
The white digital light shines brightly against the slimy walls of a narrow tunnel. A smell of mold permeates the air, similar to old milk. I hate this part of the tunnel. It's so old and so gross. I feel like with every breath I take, I'm tainting my lungs with bad air.
I scoop up my backpack and hurry up the tunnel, trying to hold my breath. The floor is slick and I almost fall several times. The tunnel widens and curves to the left. Something drips from the ceiling and taps my shoulder. I jump before realizing it was only water. This place is dark and creepy but I have never been afraid to come here before. Now, however, every little sound frightens me. Every shadow causes me to halt dead in my tracks. This is supposed to be my sanctuary but everything changed the moment I stepped foot into BioLife earlier today.
I'm still on edge. I don't think my feelings of paranoia will ever go away.
I round the corner of the tunnel and aim my flashlight beam at a door straight ahead to my right. It's a plain door, nothing special except that it's locked with a code panel. The panel I found during an excursion to the northern ruins when I was ten. It took me about six months to acquire all of the parts necessary to repair it, and another four months to fix the darn thing. I installed the panel to protect my hidey-hole from others who might discover it. A few homeless people have tried to get inside—I find dirty fingerprints on the keypad from time to time—but so far, no one has been able to crack the code.
Numb Page 7