"It's blocked by an Ammon's horn, a digital code that is very difficult to hack. The algorithms are off the charts. This device is meant for a connection with a more compatible operating system. I can possibly crack the code but I may not be able to uncover all of the info stored on here. Not unless I can figure out what type of operating system I'll need."
"How much time will that require?" Lilly wants to know.
Aidan shrugs. "I don't know. A week. Maybe two."
Just like that, my anticipation is punctured.
"Charlotte?" Lilly calls my name. I face her. "Aidan will have to keep the drive—"
"No," I tell her, shaking my head.
"Charlotte, he has to," Lilly tries to convince me. She moves closer to me. Her arms brushes my own and I pull away before she can grab me.
"No offense, Aidan, but I don't know you, which means that I can't trust you with this. I'll meet you everyday if I have to but I'm not leaving Hippo thingie with you. I'm sorry."
"Charlotte, we have to find out—"
"No, Lilly," I silence her and for a second, her eyes flash angrily in my direction.
"Lilly, it's okay," Aidan says bracingly. He offers me the flash drive after disconnecting it from his computer. "I've copied the code to my system. I don't have the content of the Hippocampus of course, but I can at least figure out a way to override the complex system. When I crack it, I'll let you know and Charlotte can bring the device back to me then."
"I like that idea," I tell him, stuffing the drive into my jacket.
Lilly doesn't seem to like it but she has no choice but to agree. The Entity may have instructed her to help me but he gave the envelope to me and not her. It's my responsibility.
Now that we've seemed to have reached an accord, I glance at Aidan. "So, I was wondering if you had any Rolling Stones CDs?"
Chapter Sixteen
Liam
I try to not to look at her portrait as I read through her profile yet again.
The words blur on the dashboard's viewscreen, as the cop guides the car across town at full speed. I should have suspected that she was a criminal. Her outfits were all the telltale signs I needed. The rebels enjoy employing silent revolutions. They view it as a bit of a joke. If they can actively pervert laws before our very eyes, then it makes them feel important.
Charlotte Tatum. That's her name. I now know why she looks familiar because I trained as a junior agent with her fraternal twin sister, Scarlett. Scarlett was arrested before she completed her training. She was only a few months away from receiving a commendation. Her crime was love. I don't know which offense is worse—expressing love or murdering a politician. Both are actions I could never perform.
Being a criminal seems to run in the Tatum family. So does the Black Death.
Reading through Charlotte's bio, I note that her mother died from cancer like my father, an inconsequential similarity between the two of us other than our association with Scarlett. Now, her father is suffering from the sickness, although he has lived with it for over two years. I'm not much of a medical expert but I know that feat is impossible. How has he survived? It's irrelevant but if doctors can examine him, maybe they can figure out a way to end a plague that's almost as terrible as SAFE.
Nothing else stands out in Charlotte's file. She has no priors. Healthcare officials were suspicious of funds her family was receiving other than insurance and disability checks, but nothing they deemed illegal. She has no history of mental problems. Her performance in school was mediocre at best but I can't find anything that begins to explain why she would kill someone, especially a dignitary.
I've heard that sometimes people can just snap, like a rubber band pulled back a little too far.
We arrive at her home to find purple flashing lights everywhere. Other patrolmen have secured the area and they have entered the house already. They weren't supposed to do that. Ramos told me that they were going to await my arrival. If Charlotte has escaped, then—
I leap out of the car before it comes to a complete stop and march across the lawn, straightening my uniform as I walk. The media vans start arriving in droves, tires squealing to a halt. I suppose the story must have leaked out already. Neighbors have also stepped outside to bear witness as we bring Emerson's murderer to justice. Charlotte Tatum must face the consequences for what she's done, even if the government could stand to lose tainted representatives like Emerson.
My heart tells me that this girl, who has lost her mother to death and a sister to the legal system, can't possibly be the killer. But my mind tells me otherwise. And logic triumphs over instincts any day of the week.
The front door to the house stands ajar. I stride for the rectangular opening teeming with light. Medical personnel appear suddenly, pushing a stretcher through the doorframe. A man in his early forties lies strapped to the gurney, his eyes unfocused. He seems heavily sedated but when I glance at him, I see that he has the same eyes as Charlotte, only his are brown. I presume that this man is her father. His dark brown skin is ashen and he looks very frail.
"Where is Charlotte?" He asks in a quiet voice. Everyone tending to him ignores him.
I step aside and allow them to rush past. For a second, Mr. Tatum's eyes flicker towards me and I pause, frozen in his gaze. I think about my father and how much he must have suffered from cancer. Did he look like this man before he died? I don't know because I wasn't with my father when he passed. I heard about it first on the news and then, a few hours later, I received a phone call from Dr. Cato. I felt nothing when I learned of his premature demise. But I feel something today. I don't like what I feel but I also don't like it that many people are suffering daily with same affliction. The government I have followed devoutly my entire life has turned a blind eye to the devastating disease. Dr. Cato was the only person trying to make a difference but her efforts died with her arrest, unless someone else has the resources to continue her work. Perhaps Dr. Prescott.
I stare after the paramedics until Mr. Tatum disappears from view. They open up the rear doors of an ambulance. A lift raises the gurney up and into the back of the truck. A few of the attendants scramble inside and close the doors behind them. But the truck doesn't pull off. Instead, it remains in the yard, so I assume there's no emergency.
I enter the house and find out quickly why the cops have already barged into the place. Amber Army soldiers patrol the living room, observing the progress made by the investigators combing every nook and cranny. I approach the nearest team from the local precinct. I don't bother with the soldiers, although every single one of them is eyeing me. I can see their shadowy eyes hidden beneath their armored helms.
"Where's the suspect?" I ask a cop with a single plait and dark green eyes.
"She wasn't here when we arrived," she informs me. "Her sister's in the kitchen, ready for your interrogation."
"Have you found anything incriminating?"
"Not anything related to the murder of Emerson. We did find several bottles of alcohol concealed beneath a loose floorboard in the kitchen. They're very old and caked with grime. They've could have been stashed there for ages. We're trying to figure out if they belonged to the current residences. If so, then the father may face criminal charges as well."
"He has Black Death," I comment softly, although I'm sure she's already aware of this fact. "They'll probably throw the case out, as he will die soon anyways. No point in sending him to prison only to have the state pay for his funeral and other posthumous debts."
"A criminal should still pay for his or her offenses no matter what."
I used to believe this wholeheartedly. Now, I'm not so sure. What is happening to me?
I walk into the kitchen to find more cops and a girl that I think is Charlotte until I take a second glance. She's younger than her sister but they look almost identical. She could pass as Charlotte's twin more so than Scarlett. Her name is Abigail, as I read in Charlotte's file. She is a brilliant little girl; her school's test scores are exceptional.
It's a wonder she hasn't followed Scarlett into joining the agency. Perhaps what happened to Scarlett has blacklisted the rest of her family. I might have to consult with Ramos about giving her a chance. At least one Tatum child can have the opportunity to do something to serve our nation, other than rotting inside of a jail cell.
She sits calmly at a table, watching everything with a placid expression. Her hazel eyes shift towards me and I feel as though I'm staring into Charlotte's during a tram ride. Abigail's are a little too green though, and not the perfect blending of brown and viridian like Charlotte's. Still, I'm reminded of the girl whose face almost has as much of an impact on me as the Purge.
Abigail eyes me as I approach her. One of the cops stand next to her, his hand on his pistol in case she tries something funny. She's only twelve years old and probably weighs less than eighty pounds. I'm certain the officer can subdue her easily without the use of bullets.
Handcuffs do not bind her hands because she's not a threat. Her eyes shine with intensity so I suspect a separation from the Purge. I ignore my discovery.
"Abigail?" I call.
She stares with indifference, waiting for me to continue with what I have to say.
"My name is Agent Cato. I'm going to ask you a few questions about your sister, Charlotte. It's imperative that we find her."
"I don't know where she is," Abigail tells me before I can make a single inquiry. "She left a half an hour ago and she didn't tell me where she was going."
"Very well then. Can I get you to—"
"Agent Cato," a muffled voice silences me.
I turn to find one of the Amber Army soldiers standing nearby, his or her armor glinting in the kitchen lights. I don't say anything. I wasn't the one who did the interrupting.
"Charlotte Tatum is our top priority and we need to find her now." I realize then he's a male.
"We should have the cops establish a perimeter and we should send out search teams to look for her quietly. If she discovers that we're here, she'll escape. We have to find her before she returns." I face Abigail again. "Did Charlotte mention when she would be returning home?"
Abigail shakes her head and nothing more. I sense tension radiating from her. She's intimidated by the presence of the soldier. The Amber Army has that effect upon people, more so than the White Agency.
The soldier stands there quietly for a moment before he tilts his head to the side and presses two fingers against his helmet. "Bring in the Zeppelins."
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte
Currently Listening To: "Blackbird" by AlterBridge
I inch my way forward as close as I dare.
I can see everything in front of me, all of the flashing purple lights and all of the cops dressed in their gray uniforms, but my brain doesn't process any of the images with clarity. I can hear the sounds of the investigators prowling the yard, but then a great buzzing fills my ears as though a concussion grenade has detonated beside me. I smell the smoke radiating from the nearby chimney but I don't care that I'm inhaling rank fumes. I taste my own sweat as perspiration dribbles into my open mouth. And I feel empty.
The cops have finally found me. They know I was at BioLife and they are under the auspices that I murdered Emerson. It was only a matter of time before they figured it out.
My life is over and all I can think about is my family.
The cops know I'm not here so what will they do to my father and Abigail? They will question them certainly. I'm glad I never told them anything about my secret life. That way they won't have to lie and if they can keep up the charade of taking the Purge daily, then they should be spared. They have to be spared. Neither one of them is going down because of me.
They rolled my father out on a stretcher and placed him into an ambulance a few minutes ago. The medical van hasn't moved so I assume that's he's okay. If they hurt him or caused him to become any sicker, I will destroy them all.
Weak and useless threats, I know. I mean, what could I possibly do against about fifty cops inside my house and out, and with all of the witnesses around as my nosy neighbors are watching everything unfold. If I had a gun, I could maybe shoot one of them before I'm gunned down myself. Definitely not a good way to go out and I don't want Abigail or my father to witness something like that.
I wait around. I know I shouldn't but I'm rooted to the spot, petrified by wanting to know if Abigail is safe. I can't leave until I'm certain that she hasn't done anything stupid to jeopardize her life. Mine is over already. There's no need for her to follow suit, even though she has Scarlett and I for role models as elder sisters.
Since Abigail doesn't have Black Death like my father, the cops are more than likely interrogating her right now. I keep thinking that she has done something rash but Abigail's a bright kid. She wouldn't but the thought weighs in heavily on my mind just the same. But I breathe a tiny sigh of relief when I realize that they would have escorted her out of the house in handcuffs by now if she had already broken the slightest law. If observant White Agents are present, then one of them may have notice the bright sheen in Abigail's eyes. The agent will suspect her of not taking the Purge regularly, but as long as Abigail acts like an emotionless machine, then she can't be arrested for the crime. The agents will provoke her and I pray that Abigail will remain strong.
I need to get away as fast as I can. I need to get underground to safety, where SAFE can offer some protection and I can hide away in my secret place. But I can't abandon my family. I want to see Abigail before I leave—if I can ever find the courage to leave.
There's a rumble in the distance and I know that the Zeppelins are coming. The government employs these state-of-the-art airships to capture high priority fugitives. They are rarely seen because most lawbreakers are imprisoned quickly or turn themselves in before going on the run. And prisoners rarely escape maximum-security facilities.
The Zeppelins are coming for me but still I don't move. I'm really pushing my luck now. The airships could be here in any moment and if I'm caught within their enormous spotlights, I have no hope. The special spotlights contain a vector scanner that can betray my identity in a heartbeat, as well as a stasis generator that will keep me from moving until the proper authorities collect me and haul me off to the nearest booking station.
The sudden sound of something like thunder causes me to jump. All around me, lights flicker dead, throwing me into obscurity. My house is the only place with lights now and I watch my neighbors looking around before they figure it all out. The Grid has been silenced. The cops really want me bad.
This can't be happening. Everything seems so unreal. I want to believe that I'm dreaming but that's a childish desire. I have to face the reality that everything will be different. Everyone knows I'm a criminal now. My picture will be all over the news first thing in the morning, with a hotline number for people to call if I'm ever spotted. I can't go back to school and I can never return home. I can never ride the monorail or see the agent boy again, unless he's one of those agents who will surely pursue me when I run. And I can never see my family again because I will either be on the run for the rest of my life or I'll end up in a prison cell awaiting my execution.
I think about the impending fates of my father and Abigail and my stomach lurches horribly. Back on the Purge they will go, as both of them will be carefully monitored until I'm captured. Scientists will seize my father and Dr. Prescott will be able to fulfill Dr. Cato's wish of studying him. Dr. Cato had started the legacy of searching for a cure for Black Death, but I heard that she was recently sent to prison by her own son, who's a White Agent. Once he restarts a daily regimen of the Purge, my father will become sicker and sicker. More than likely, he'll die before a cure is discovered because staying off the Purge is the cure, or as close to one I could have ever hoped for. Two years I had kept him alive a lot longer than he should have been and now it will all be a waste.
Abigail will be sent to an orphanage until she turns eighteen. The government always has bi
g plans for "wards of the state", as they often called orphans. A public service job awaits Abigail when she's older, unless she's adopted into the White Agency or another branch of law enforcement. The Amber Army might even be interested in her because of her intelligence. I don't want to imagine Abigail following in Scarlett's footsteps in becoming a White Agent. And I definitely don't want to imagine her as a soldier of the Amber Army, decked out in golden armor and able to command electricity through some sort of circuits inside her suit.
For a fleeting second, I consider turning myself in but what good would that do? The gallows awaits me for killing Noah Emerson, even though I'm as innocent as a newborn child. I won't have the chance to fight or attempt to clear my name if I'm incarcerated. Going on the run is my only option. It seems like a long shot but I know a lot of places around Paradise where I can bide my time and hope to find Emerson's true killer. I'm no investigator but I have to try.
Speaking of investigators: how in the world did the White Agency figure out that I was inside of Emerson's suite anyway? I was disguised as Ava Suarez and I could have definitely passed for her twin sister. I had caught my wig on the frame of the Chancellor's picture, and had surely left some strands behind, but synthetic hair is difficult to trace to a particular owner. Hundreds of women probably own the same exact model. I was careful not to touch anything except—
Crap. There it is. They found my fingerprints on the sliding door handle. In my haste, I wasn't careful enough to wipe my prints clean.
Overwhelmed with anger at myself for my fatal mistake, the music inside my head swells to an unnatural racket. I have never been this upset before, not even when the government implemented the stupid law on clothing. This is truly what rage feels like and I'm fully aware that I am experiencing it. I may not know what other emotions are really like, but I am definitely familiar with anger now.
The Zeppelins draw nearer with the buzz of a thousand mosquitoes. I shrink more into the shadows, and the pressing darkness is currently my best friend. Then, I detect movement from inside of my house, as several people exit through the front door.
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