"I thought you just said he knows everything," I say to her.
"Okay, almost everything," Lilly corrects herself.
"I can try and hack the cipher but I think it's going to be difficult, perhaps a lot tougher than ID chips." I say this but in the back of my mind I'm trying desperately to figure out why the Entity wants the two of us to do his dirty work for him. That package has the potential to ruin my life and although I really want to know what's inside, something doesn't seem right about taking such a risk. But I trust Lilly and if she believes that this is what we have to do, then I should follow her lead. Without her, I will be completely alone in this mess.
Lilly considers this for a moment. "Speaking of which, I think I know someone who might be able to help us."
I narrow my eyes, forgetting that I'm out in public yet again. "Who?"
It burns Lilly up that she can't grin right now. I can see it plainly in her eyes. "You remember that rumor about someone cracking an ID chip's cipher?"
I nod.
"Let's just say it wasn't a rumor."
So, Lilly is acquainted with a talented hacker person. Perhaps working for the Entity has its perks.
"His name is Aidan Richardson. He's on the move a lot, so it may take me a while to track him down." She sips her water. "I'll give you a buzz when I do. I'm sure he'll help us."
I nod and the two of us talk for a little while longer. Lilly tells me to keep the package safe and avoid other people as much as possible, except when I'm at school of course. She reassures me that no one knows I was ever inside of Emerson's suite except for the Entity and the two of us. My secret is safe . . . as long as I didn't leave behind anything linking me to the crime scene.
Then, Lilly has to leave in a hurry, so we call it a night. As I exit the bar and walk down the street, I chide myself for not mentioning what happened to the clothes I borrowed from her. I'm shocked she didn't ask me about them. I also forgot to bring up the topic about my bravery. What had she meant by that? My mind is so troubled by that puzzling question that I return to the manhole behind the restaurants without much thought.
I shake the question from my mind and lean forward to remove the lid to the sewers, when I hear soft movement behind me. Either I'm about to get robbed or—
"Halt," a monotone voice orders me, as much as a person in Purge-induced passivity can dish out commands.
I freeze in a semi-crouch position, one of my arms extended towards the circular cover.
"Rise slowly and put your hands up."
I do as I'm told. A cop approaches me and frisks me down. She has to have a companion because I can hear the shift of a weapon behind me. And unless she speaks like a man . . . .
My heart rate quickens, beating so loudly that the cop touching me in inappropriate places should have heard it by now. This is it. They have found me and it didn't take long at all because I practically walked right into a trap by leaving my house so soon after the BioLife incident.
I swallow hard when the cop finishes checking me for weapons or anything else that's illegal for a citizen to carry. "She's clean," she alerts her partner, backing away from me.
"Turn around and keep your hands up," comes the next command. "And explain to me why I shouldn't take you into the nearest station for booking."
Chapter Eight, Part One
Liam
Same day. Another high-profile crime scene. This one involving a dead body.
Noah Emerson. He was about as left wing as one can be within the political system of Paradise. He had several radical ideas that could have possibly stemmed from support of the rebels. But he had a gift with words and his fellow Parliament representatives could never find any evidence to the contrary.
So, for over a decade, Emerson sat in a leadership seat inside the Core. He prompted change within the legal system, reducing some of the penalties involving crimes of emotions. Children who break the law are no longer sent to prison because of him. Instead, they are sent to a special reform school somewhere near the northern ruins. Three years ago, Emerson convinced Parliament to eliminate the death penalty for extreme criminal offenses. Somehow the vote was unanimous after an agreement was reached to retain lethal injection for those who murdered government officials in cold blood.
I suppose that people who no longer inhale the Purge would call that ironic.
If popularity measured the government's worth, then Emerson wouldn't have been very popular. He would have been disliked by some of his fellows and perhaps even the Chancellor himself. Before he was killed, Emerson proposed a controlled experiment to study people actively displaying emotions in reaction to outside stimuli. He sought to advance the work already being done by psychologists and sociologists. Instead of speaking to patients, he advocated a more dynamic and illegal research.
Emerson's bill was shot down like a bird in the eye of a rifle's scope. Less than three weeks later, he now lies dead inside of a suite at BioLife.
The research facility is crawling with patrol cars, news vans, and people in general. The turnout here is far greater than Dr. Cato's arrest, even though to the common citizen she is probably more recognizable. Parliament members rarely leave the Core. People vote for them based on merit and platform alone and politicians don't make visits or campaign heavily like leaders of the past.
Superior Agent Jackson Ramos greets Sophia and I when we arrive on the scene. He's our boss and he has been enforcing the law for over twenty years. He was present during the riots in the north and nearly caught up with the Wanderer, who proved as elusive as the Entity is currently. The man is a legend and if it wasn't for the Purge, I would admire him.
He approaches us, arm and leg muscles rippling even beneath clothing. He stands north of six foot by several inches and he's more than two hundred pounds of sheer power. He's like a missile when he chases after criminals. He has great acceleration and his speed is explosive for such a brawny man. He's approaching fifty and he's in better shape than I'll ever be.
His graying dark hair is shaved low in a military style. A goatee traces his lip with a perfect box and his green eyes survey the area as sharply keen as a bird of prey's. I think about an eagle whenever I look at him and suppressing crimes of emotions are his quarries.
"Cato. Bailey." He acknowledges our presence with a face as hard as diamonds.
Although we are not in the military, Sophia and I salute Ramos. Salutes are expressions of respect within the agency, the only way we can demonstrate reverence without becoming those very people we hunt on a day-to-day basis. Sometimes beat cops salute Sophia and I whenever we work together. We don't command such a respect yet but eventually, we will be well on our way towards emulating Ramos' stellar career.
"You've been briefed already?" Ramos asks us. He starts walking away from the towering BioLife building and towards the riverbank where a team of crime scene investigators scours the land with scanners, searching for trace evidence.
"Yes, sir," I respond immediately.
"We have visuals of the killer," Ramos informs us, his steely gaze facing forward. "All we have to do is figure out who she is."
The suspect is a female. It makes sense as Emerson had a suite inside the mating clinic of BioLife. Immediately, I deduce that his selected mating partner is the killer but why would she commit the crime when BioLife has all of her personal information? That would be irrational and make it easier for us to track her down. That leaves either one of the nurses or an outsider, if the mating partner is not the culprit.
The grassy trail we're walking upon follows the bending of the Utopia River, curving around towards the side of the BioLife building. I glance up at the twenty-story glass building, which reflects the last remnants of the sun's glare as the morning star disappears behind the western horizon. Night falls rapidly and darkness spreads over the land like a black veil, growing steadily more and more obscure with each passing minute. Already some of the crime scene investigators are donning flashlights and other sources of artificial
illumination.
In this area, the building stands in very close proximity with the river. I look up seven stories or so and spot a balcony with an open door. Technicians are combing the balcony as well. That is obviously Emerson's suite.
"When the suspect fled from security personnel, she leapt off of the balcony upstairs and into the river," Ramos speaks again without warning. He points up at the balcony and then over towards the river.
"That's about an eighty foot plunge," Sophia observes. "Did she survive that?"
"Yes," Ramos says flatly. "Security fired into the river with Lightning Discharger bullets but she managed to escape somehow."
Lightning Dischargers are standard issue assault rifles that unleash electrically charged bullets, which stun and incapacitate victims simultaneously. The electrical ammunition was developed using tech from the Catalyst. I know this because my father worked on improving Dischargers before his death.
"She must be a talented swimmer," I note, without giving the suspect praise. My eyes fall upon the Utopia River. The water thrashes about against the banks like a liquid whip. Crossing the river would require a multi-mile swim; a difficult feat to pull off while dodging electrically charged bullets.
"They teach swimming in school now," Ramos says knowledgably. "It keeps students from being obese and swimming laps provides a rigorous recreational activity that's neither fun nor enjoyable. That way, no child will be tempted to deny the Purge's influence."
"We should speak to school officials about these swim lessons," Sophia says. "Maybe tell the instructors not to teach students how to escape from the law with skills to survive an eighty foot drop."
Ramos acknowledges her words silently. "There's a possibility that she might've drowned. If a stray bullet ventured too close to her, the water would have conducted enough electricity for a microshock electrocution."
"Women are more susceptible to macroshock electrocution," I speak up, recalling reading through some of my father's old research notes about the effects of Discharger bullets when making contact with the human body. "The shock would have had to pass through her heart somehow after direct contact with her trunk. The current would have also had to be high and continuous, which a Discharger bullet does not possess. Discharger bullets are only a little stronger than the average Taser. The voltage is high, exceeding five thousand volts but the current is pulsed and low, posing little danger. A typical wall outlet has a medium voltage of a little more than a hundred, but the current is continuous and high, which is very dangerous."
"Isn't voltage and current the same thing?" Sophia questions me because apparently I'm the electricity expert.
"No, voltage is what moves an electric current, almost like pressure. Current is the flow of electricity. So, in essence, voltage drives a current."
Sophia is clever so she comprehends easily. "High pressure and low flow is not bad but low pressure and high flow can be bad."
"Exactly."
"Let's head inside and take a closer look at Emerson suite," Ramos suggests. "Find out if the techs found anything."
We enter BioLife through a side entrance reserved for top-notch employees only. The hallway is wide, with glass offices and laboratories on both sides. Employees are still hard at work here, despite the earlier murder of Noah Emerson. Progress waits for no one and these scientists continue to pursue valuable goals that will advance the already state of the art technology of Paradise. Scientists labor diligently over bizarre contraptions and computer monitors, their blue coats billowing behind them like a dose of off-colored Purge gas. I'm aware of the eyes upon us, as the three of us sweeps pass the researchers. They are not curious, but our movement through the corridor serves as a temporary distraction from their work.
We enter an access door, after Ramos absently swipes his ID at a security checkpoint, and find ourselves in a different part of the facility. We march through a lobby with carpeted floors, plain white walls, high vaulted ceiling, and the logo of BioLife emblazoned into the frosted glass of every door leading to branching hallways. A receptionist with clementine orange hair sits behind a desk in the corner. She eyes us as we pass in a flurry, making a beeline for the elevators at the rear of the room. People tend to stare whenever agents like us are present somewhere, and the receptionist doesn't disappoint. I glance at her. Her face is inflexible so I don't have to arrest her.
One of the elevators lifts us up to the seventh floor. We exit to find a vacant area of the mating clinic, devoid of all employees. Off in the distance, I make out the sounds of a murder investigation, so we follow the noise.
We locate the investigative team quickly enough. Just like at Dr. Cato's residence, cops comb every inch of the hallway directly outside of Emerson's suite, as well as the suite itself. During normal investigations like Dr. Cato's, the agency typically employs a dozen or so investigators and a couple of agents. But Emerson's murder is not a normal investigation and the place is crawling with so many investigators and agents that we might as well be an army. In fact, a few soldiers from the Amber Army are even present, concealed head to toe behind gilded armored suits. They seem out of place here, almost inhuman for some reason.
I've heard stories about them but they're shrouded in mystery. Their golden suits are believed to be the source of unique abilities, although no one outside the Core is one hundred percent positive that's true. Amber Army soldiers are enigmatic and are about as rarely seen as politicians. So, their presence doesn't make sense but they have to be here for a reason. Why else would the Chancellor deploy a small battalion?
"What are they doing here?" Sophia asks me. "Surely, they're not here to investigate Emerson's murder."
"The Chancellor could be here," I say, looking around for the sight of our illustrious leader.
"Too risky," Sophia points out. "SAFE rebels are getting bold. This is the third murder of a Parliament member this year. The Chancellor wouldn't jeopardize his life by leaving the stalwart security of the Core."
Sophia reminds me of a statistic that the government is working hard to keep out of the press. Journalists and reporters had a field day relaying the news about the first government official who was murdered. That death marked the first time that an elected Parliament representative was killed by a factor other than illness or natural causes since the northern ruin riots. He was shot by a sniper while making a speech about the ongoing efforts of containing SAFE.
The government covered up the second murder, a bomb that wiped out a politician and a group of chemists overseeing a secret project, which occurred two months ago. All leaks to the media were sealed and a false story was fabricated, blaming the explosion on a chemical experiment. The leaders of Paradise could not have the citizens questioning their authority. The system is perfect and it's the government's responsibility to maintain perfection at all costs.
Now, a third murder has occurred. This one might be difficult to conceal from the public, considering all of the news personnel present outside of BioLife already. Perhaps that is why the Amber Army is here, to contain the situation somehow.
Chapter Eight, Part Two
Liam
"We've already interrogated the concierge," Ramos speaks suddenly. "He witnessed a woman with blond hair entering Emerson's suite prior to his murder. She left the suite once for a few minutes prior to returning. After that, he notified security that something suspicious was going on, at the insistence of the killer herself. Security responded to the call and found Emerson dead. They pursued the suspect to the balcony of the suite, where she then jumped into the river."
"Who was Emerson's mating partner and what do we know about her?" I question Ramos, as we weave through the investigators walking through the hallway. "Shouldn't she already be in custody, as she's more than likely the primary suspect?"
"Her name is Ava Suarez," Ramos replies. "She's a sociologist who came to Paradise to study the criminals that we put behind bars." He pauses for a little too long before speaking his next words. "And she's not
in custody because there's been a hitch in the investigation. We've already hit a snag."
"What kind of snag?" Sophia inquires.
"Ava Suarez never showed up to the clinic this morning. We have her on recordings but she was also at home and has an alibi. Actually, she has two alibis."
"Which are?" I ask, unable to connect the dots just yet.
"The first is that during the time when Emerson was supposedly murdered, Suarez was processing paperwork at her office twenty miles west of here," Ramos responds. "Her coworkers are trustworthy witnesses and we have visual proof."
"And the second?"
"Yesterday evening, Suarez received a call from an untraceable number. A woman informed her that her appointment for mating was cancelled and that she would be informed of a reschedule at a later date. The real Ava Suarez never set foot inside of BioLife today."
"But someone else did," I finally comprehend. "An imposter, pretending to be her."
Ramos nods. "She even had all of Suarez's credentials and she definitely looked like her enough to get past security, a nearly perfect pretender."
We squeeze into the suite through a space in all of the congested traffic. A narrow hallway opens up into a wide sitting room, about half the size of my penthouse. The floor flashes with a different color every time someone steps upon a particular panel. The flashing floor lights are supposed to stimulate sexual prowess somehow, and not pleasure. Sexual pleasure is not allowed, even during a mating ritual. Intercourse is only about increasing our population, and not about making love or whatever else people in the past used to gain from it.
Emerson's body lies straight ahead, limbs extended and eyes closed. Dried blood stains his clothes and the floor around him. I crane my neck and look to the left. Blood splatters the wall near a portrait of the Supreme Chancellor. In fact, a few drops of the crimson essence dot the glass of the ornate frame enclosing the picture, defiling it like expletive graffiti on the side of a train or wall.
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