Her heart raced. It explained the disappearance. One of the great mysteries of the last twenty years and she had the answer staring out at her from her monitor. She smiled. The one remaining part of her mind that wasn’t consumed with terror was laughing at the absurdity of it.
Jack would know what to do.
She moved the information to her private data stack and closed the files. This was worth far more than the two thousand she’d paid for it. If she worked fast and with even a fraction of the canny her dad always admired in her, the information was worth ten times that.
But maybe Jack shouldn’t be her next call. Canny and arrogant weren’t a million miles apart and perhaps it would pay off to approach the subject of these photos directly. She licked her lips. She could pull this off. She needed to.
When she’d taken another twenty breaths, Keeley used her HALO to make the second to last call of her life.
12:30 PM
With a crash that woke the short dumpy man from his rest, the cell door opened. A voice came from above.
Dr Fenton Hardwick sighed and considered staying on his bunk before resigning himself to getting up and facing the day. The police had been talking to him for most of the night and after a short session at the magistrates’ court he ended up at Penal Rest Centre AJ 14 where he’d been dropped into his cell and sealed up like a sardine in a tin.
“Visitor, 79941,” the guard called down to him as the steps emerged from the wall beside the toilet.
Fenton glanced at his bare wrist. “What time is it?”
“Eight Fifteen. You’ve had enough beauty sleep. Now get a shift on.”
Fenton flipped onto his front and stared up at the fat guard shouting instructions at him. It was the same guard who’d been here this morning when he’d been assigned his cell; a charmless slob in desperate need of a personal trainer. The man’s sagging features and jowls gave him the appearance of a sad mutt that’s settled into a life of lounging by its bowl waiting for the next feed.
“Who is it? My solicitor?”
“Yeah, and I’m not telling you again to get moving.” The fat guard had his fingers play over the cell's door control—a small light panel projection two feet from the ground.
“No, wait, I’m coming,” Fenton said. “Any chance of some new clothes?”
“I’ve got some prison gear if you’d like. I’m afraid we’ve not had the chance to pack a suitcase for you.” The fat guard didn’t smile. A shame as it would have lifted his cheeks.
“I’ll give it a miss.”
“Very wise. Now are you coming?” The guard tapped his baton against his thigh. Fenton had heard them using the weapon that morning to encourage a prisoner back into his cell. There was something unnerving about being kept in a cell built into the floor. Light came from rows of windows high above them; an impossible view.
Fenton crawled up the steps and stood in front of the guard.
“Assume the position.”
“What?”
The baton appeared in front of his face and crackled with energy. That helped Fenton remember.
He stood, arms raised, legs apart and looked up at the guard. A thin smile appeared on his face as he released a hand sized drone into the air. It left his hand and buzzed around Fenton’s body, whirling through the gap between his legs and then up around his upper torso.
“I’m not sure what you think I’ve smuggled in here in the last five hours.”
The drone returned to the guard’s hand and he pocketed it. “Rules are rules. You’ll understand that if you get to stay here long enough.”
Fenton relaxed into a nonchalant stance, hands in his pockets and glanced around at the grid of cells they were standing above. Thin walkways crisscrossed between the units and the guard led Fenton across to the edge of the grid. He glimpsed the other prisoners in the cells he passed and frowned.
“Hands in front.”
Fenton rolled his eyes but obliged. A thick pair of plastisteel cuffs snapped over his wrists. He winced as they resized to reduce any give between skin and cuff to zero.
“I don’t think these are necessary.”
As the guard stopped and turned to face him, Fenton realised how tall the man was.
“And I have more restraints I can apply at my discretion.” He leaned in close and Fenton caught the smell of cheese and onion crisps on his breath. “Most of our guests learn to speak when spoken to. Do you need to take that lesson?”
Fenton held the man’s gaze before shaking his head slowly. No point in antagonising the guards. He wasn’t coming back to this cell. His legal team were the best in the business and he’d be on his way home within the hour.
They reached the edge of the cell block and stepped onto a walkway that ran along the perimeter. More guards walked around this space. Security drones patrolled the cells, checking in on each unit routinely. Some random drones appeared to be operated by controllers seated at stations around the walls.
And this was meant to be a low-security unit.
“First time in here?” The guard said as he led Fenton into the corridor that led to the main administration block.
“Obviously.”
“You want to be the wise guy, we’ve got special rooms for guests like you. Remand or not.”
Fenton bit his tongue. He knew exactly what his rights were and the man was bluffing. But, after this meeting, that wouldn’t matter.
They passed through two sets of security doors before stopping outside a room. The guard held his security HALO ring to the panel by the door and it slid open, revealing an interview room. He gestured that Fenton should step inside.
“You’ve got twenty minutes,” he said then closed the door behind him.
A young Asian man in a sharp blue suit sat at the table in the centre of the grey room. As he stood to shake hands with Fenton, there was a whiff of cheap aftershave.
“Seok Seong Rhee. Pleased to meet you.”
Fenton noticed the class two tattoo on his forehead and ignored the outstretched hand. The young solicitor withdrew back to his chair and sat down.
Fenton asked, “Where’s Donald?”
“Unavoidably detained on another case.”
“Too bad. I only deal with Donald.”
Seok shifted the datapad on the table almost imperceptibly before folding his hands in front of him and looking at his subject with narrowing eyes.
“From what I’ve read, there are precious few deals to be had. Your situation is not good, Fenton.”
“Dr Hardwick.”
A raised eyebrow and Goddammit if the man didn’t just roll his eyes. Fenton took a deep breath and exhaled through his mouth, trying to free the tightness in his chest.
“You got a cigarette?”
Seok shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now sit down. We’ve got to get through this before this morning’s hearing or there’s no chance of getting you out of here.”
“How long you been a teep?”
“Two years.”
There was something in Seok’s voice when he said this, something Fenton could not quite put his finger on. Embarrassment? Shame?
There was the briefest of pauses.
“Were you still at law school when it happened?”
Seok stopped looking down at his notes and lifted his head to look Fenton in the eye. “I’m not able to read you, without your permission.”
“Which I don’t give.”
“Then take a seat and let’s get on with this.”
“Are they watching us?”
“Undoubtedly,” Seok said. “But they’re not allowed to record. There are no telepaths spying on us either.”
“How do you know?” Fenton asked.
“I’d know.” He tapped the side of his forehead as if that explained everything and managed a thin smile. “Considering your circumstances, I’d say you’ve got a bargain from the firm.”
Fenton pulled out the chair and sat down, tucking it back under him as he arranged himsel
f neatly at the table. He put his hands in front of him, mimicking the posture of his solicitor before easing back into his chair. The man was too young and too fresh out of law school to be of any good to him. Donald Lex had a nerve.
“You consider yourself a bargain?”
“Your business assets have been frozen. The courts tried to block all of your personal accounts, and they’ve succeeded I’m afraid. You have ten thousand and fifty-three pounds in an account they haven’t yet been able to trace back to your business activities. I’d suggest you give me authorisation now to transfer that money to Lex and Locke to fund your case. It isn’t going to last for long but hopefully, we’ll get you out of here today. Once outside, I’m sure you’ll be able to put your hands on some more cash.” Seok smiled smugly.
“Where do we start?” Fenton asked, eager now to get this over with.
“The police arrested you on suspicion of your running an illegal medical practice.”
“They’ve no evidence.”
“Yes, they do. Why else would they have broken into your offices at ten o’clock last night and dragged you into custody? We don’t have the luxury of pretending you’re innocent here. I’m just going to run through the facts and establish grounds for releasing you on bail.”
Fenton’s hands clenched and he sighed heavily. “They think I’ve been doing illegal surgeries.”
“And have you?”
“I’m innocent.”
Seok looked up from his datapad and Fenton wondered how much will-power it was taking for Seok to not just grab his hand and read his thoughts.
“Of course you are,” Seok replied, “But, if there’s information you think I must know to help free you, tell me. They’ll claim you’re a flight risk. That’s how they will keep you in here.”
“How can I be a flight risk? They’ve frozen all my assets.”
“And do you have any friends or family to help you out of a tight spot?”
“My family’s dead.”
“Friends?”
Fenton shook his head.
Seok sat quietly, his eyes dark and devoid of emotion.
Fenton looked up at the ceiling and wondered how long he had until they came to put him back in his cell. How had he come to this? A plastic surgeon at the top his profession. There was no one alive who could blend a new face over an old one as skilfully as Fenton Hardwick. But a skill like that attracted a certain client, and that was why he needed to run clinics that didn’t go through the system. Initially, none of this was for his direct benefit. When a member of the Kostra Vosta comes to you asking for a patch-up job on their boy’s face after getting caught in the middle of a gun fight, you didn’t get to say no. But later, perhaps, after he’d earned a reputation in the wrong circles for this kind of work, he realised that this paid far better than the official work he was doing. And the truth was, the danger was a rush. Dealing with men who he’d spent his life fearing, but who were now showing him respect—that made him feel good.
But where were they now? These men whose lives he’d protected. Why weren’t they working to get him released?
It didn’t matter. Fenton knew that he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life in jail—not when he had a client list as hot as his.
1:30 PM
Jack Winston glared at the small wooden box on the edge of his desk. For the last twenty minutes, it had sat there undisturbed, waiting for his attention. No bigger than the length of his hand, and half as tall and wide, it looked innocuous enough, almost harmless.
The watcher had arrived with it twenty minutes ago and Jack had brought it to his office whilst the stoic guard waited downstairs in the kitchen. Jack had made a coffee for them both, but he’d let his get cold after staring at the box for so long. He drank it anyway; with the price of coffee so high, even a remnant keeper couldn’t afford to waste it. The bitter liquid at least wet his mouth and he knew it would counter some of the dehydration that would soon be coming. Sifting through the box’s contents always left him drained, physically and mentally.
His HALO buzzed and he checked the display. Keeley.
He considered not answering. The hurt from their fight the previous night still clung heavy. It might be easier to deal with this later after he’d finished the recall and planned what he’d say.
But he didn’t wait.
“Hi,” he said, speaking into his HALO, wondering whether he had the guts to apologise to her first.
“It’s me.”
“Yeah. I know.” She sounded nervous to Jack. Her voice a pitch higher than normal. “What’s up?”
“Has anyone spoken to you today?” she asked.
“Like whom?”
A sigh. Something was wrong, and his instinct was telling him it wasn’t because they’d argued.
“I’m coming home.”
“Why? What’s happened?” he asked.
“Something’s come up. I need to talk to you.”
“If it’s about last night—”
“Jack, just let it go. It’s not about last night. Stop. Just stop it.”
“Stop what?”
She’s not crying again is she?
“Don’t speak to anyone until I’ve spoken to you.” She was talking fast. “And don’t go out.”
Don’t go out? He lowered his voice. “Are you in trouble?”
“No. Maybe.”
He glanced at the memory box on the desk and shook his head. “I’ve been given a case. They only called me an hour ago. A rush job.”
“Seriously?” She sounded pissed.
“Why would I make that up?”
“Is a watcher with you?”
“In the kitchen. Listen, I’ve got to do this. It’s my job. I’ll get a black mark if I don’t get it done quickly.”
And then she said something that made Jack look to the door. The hairs on his arms stood to attention.
“Do you trust your watcher?”
“Keeley, what’s going on?”
“Do you trust him?”
Jack stood and silently closed his office door, anxious that he shouldn’t be overheard. “Of course. He’s from OsMiTech.”
“I’m coming over. Don’t start the recall until I get there. Please.”
“It doesn’t work like that. I’ve got to start as soon as I hear the voices.”
“Let them whisper. I’ll be twenty minutes. I’m coming now. Just wait for me, OK?”
“Hurry then,” he said, “it won’t be long now.”
She hung up and Jack stared at himself in the mirror above the fireplace. It had taken both of them to haul that into position, but it did the trick of bouncing light back into the landing. He didn’t recognise himself.
He sat down again, finished the dregs of his cold coffee, and waited.
The whispers started at one thirty-five p.m.; Jack made a note in his log and closed his access point. A fluttering in the stomach married with the sudden urge to run from the office. This was the twenty-eighth time Jack had received a memory box from his employers but on each occasion the feelings were the same. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, praying he could keep his nausea under control this time. Last week, the whispers had been so intense that he’d spent twenty minutes puking his guts out. Today though, his controlled breathing paid off; he opened his eyes and regarded his latest case.
He breathed deeply as he bent towards the box, filling his nostrils with scents that flung him back to childhood, days long gone in the Whispering Forests with his parents and brother, Ethan. Always rain in that scent as well—the wet smell of fallen pine cones and mossy banks—and no matter which path they’d take, the trails would always lead them back to the wire fenced zone. The forests were full of the awful malevolent pines with the black band blight giving them the distinctive dark bark and banded needles. The Trees of the Dead were an awe-inspiring sight.
Jack strained his ears and let the whispers seeping through the box tingle over his senses like the fingertips of angels. F
iltering, focusing, and the whispers became a single voice, captured at the moment of passing. A woman. Jack didn’t need to tap into his years of training to recognise the fear in that voice.
From the top drawer of his desk, he retrieved a pad and a pen and laid them both neatly within reach. Remnant keepers were encouraged to record impressions as soon as possible and Jack was now so adept he’d do this in the fugue state. Others preferred to leave recorders switched on for the duration but he found that the technology would distract him and sometimes interfered with the sensors in his head.
The noises from the rest of the house faded away as he reached for the box and positioned it squarely before him on the desk. He inserted trembling fingers into the patterns engraved on its lid and trails of light like liquid amber flowed over the carvings, bringing every detail into sharp relief.
When he removed his fingers, the orange glow remained; the connection established. Cautiously, Jack lifted the lid and looked inside.
The box was split into three. Clinging clear jelly filled these internal compartments, and nestled within the left and right was an eye, pointing up out of the box, suspended in Nanosalve. Lifeless but not useless. This victim’s eyes were testimony beyond death. The blue irises seemed dull within the jelly but the eyes were in otherwise perfect condition.
Jack couldn’t forget the first time he’d opened a memory box and seen dead eyes staring. OsMiTech training was effective but his handler had been blasé about the mental impact and even now, the sight still shocked him.
Jack moved to the green leather armchair opposite the fireplace and counted his breaths, feeling his chest rise and fall. A minute passed and he felt looser, his limbs lighter, his breathing under control. Quickly, so he wouldn’t think any more about it, he took the extraction clamp from the table before him, held it before his right eye socket and pressed a button. Filaments snuck in through the edge, reaching behind for the release clamp on his optic nerve. Holding his breathing now to help keep the tool still, the pressure around his socket intensified as the filaments widened the cavity and others cradled his eye. Automatically, the tool pulled out the organ, distorting his vision. The remaining cord of his own enhanced optic nerve dropped against his cheek and he flinched.
The Remnant Keeper (Tombs Rising Book 1) Page 2