“I don’t think this should be put off, Mr. Clean. Jonathan, at the very least, needs to be warned to be careful what he tells her.”
“Sir,” Mr. Clean said. “It would be rash. Though the problem may be serious, resolving it tonight will not alter the outcome. That, and historical records indicate we may need to handle this quite delicately—we need to anticipate that Jonathan and Ms. Silva will resist being separated.”
The computer was right. He wasn’t thinking straight. He had to sleep now while he had the opportunity. If events unfolded unfavorably, it might prove to be his last chance to rest for a considerably long time. So, Heyer reluctantly acquiesced to the computer’s advice, retreating to the twin-sized bed he had in his personal chamber. Still, as he laid his body down to sleep, he saw years of carefully laid plans unraveling around him.
“The weights were off?” he pondered again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“IT’S SUICIDE,” JOR-EL said. “No, it’s genocide.”
Hayden had been polite enough to turn the volume down while Jonathan tried to sleep. Still, the sound of Superman’s father begging the Kryptonian council to abandon their planet chased him into slumber.
“Be reasonable,” a councilman replied.
“My friend, I have never been otherwise,” responded Jor-El. “This madness is yours.”
Jonathan had opened his eyes briefly, barely conscious as Marlon Brando stood beside Superman’s mother and spoke his famous lines before sending baby Kal-El to Earth.
“You will travel far, my little Kal-El. But we will never leave you. Even in the face of our deaths, the richness of our lives shall be yours. All that I have, all that I’ve learned, everything I feel, all this, and more I… I bequeath you, my son. You will carry me inside you. All the days of your life. You will make my strength your own, and see my life through your own eyes, as your life will be seen through mine. The son becomes the father, and the father, the son. This is all I… all I can send you.”
He’d shut his eyes then, the father’s heartfelt send off to his son echoing in his awareness as he fell into a familiar dream. His mind had often taken him to this place the last few weeks. He walked through a room that seemed cold, cluttered, emptied of any light of its own. But Jonathan was not engulfed by the darkness, not rendered sightless. It was as though he carried the flame of a candle, and it illuminated vague shapes in the dark. He saw stacked cardboard storage boxes, the outlines of dust covers on old furniture, hard cement floors, brick and mortar walls. What he never seemed to remember was how he had come to find himself in the room in the first place.
He knew that none of the boxes stacked around him held what he came for. His mind was set on reaching something in the far back of the room. He moved slowly, navigating a path left by the unused spaces in the clutter. Finally, the light that followed him touched a workbench against the back wall, giving it shape as he moved closer until he could see the outline of a footlocker resting on top. The box was old and worn, and he saw writing on the lid, but couldn’t make it out. There was a formidable-looking padlock holding the box shut.
His hand was out in front of him, reaching for the lock, but then it stopped. He found himself distracted by a picture frame laid flat on the workbench’s surface. He recognized the photo—it had been on his father’s workbench in his childhood home. Evelyn, his mother, held him in a hospital bed after he’d been born. She smiled back at him from the picture frame.
Jonathan’s eyes opened, awoken by the sound of his phone vibrating on the coffee table. As he reached for it, he saw the sun was coming up. He’d slept rather heavily—odd, considering the thoughts that had weighed on him before he put his head down. He’d received a text message from one of his coworkers offering a ride to work. They were scheduled for a Sunday training at a site not far from Jonathan’s neighborhood, and if he wanted to surrender a few extra minutes of sleep, he had a ride. It seemed a decent excuse to stall needing an explanation for the girl sleeping in his bed a bit longer. Still, he had to say something to Collin.
He picked up his phone and gave it a disgusted look. If he had just let Collin think what he had in the first place, that Rylee was some ex-girlfriend, then he’d have had the perfect excuse. Still, he couldn’t juggle that lie and hope that Leah was ever going to understand why he’d run out on her during their date last night.
When no bright ideas came to him, Jonathan texted Collin, knowing his roommate was still asleep and wouldn’t see the message before Jonathan had already left for the day.
Rylee is asleep upstairs. Sorry I didn’t ask first but she needs to stay with us for a bit. I’ll explain later, just forget everything I said yesterday.
It never ceased to feel ridiculous to him. An alien had chosen him to lead mankind against an invasion of inter-dimensional attackers, and yet he spent his days trying to think of ways to keep his roommates from asking him why he had a guest sleep over without asking.
He was only half way to work when Collin responded: Brilliant, no worries.
Jonathan frowned at the message. Maybe Rylee had a point. He had a habit of over-complicating things.
“Rylee Silva,” Olivia said as she continued her report, “has not led a standard life.”
She sat in the back of the black sedan, updating her commanding officer on recent events. The exchange had been one-sided so far, The Cell having learned more in the past seventy-two hours than most of the prior months watching Jonathan. Olivia knew that her commanding officer’s silence meant she had his attention.
“She was born in Brazil, moved to the U.S. with her parents around the age of eight. Her father runs a small martial arts school on the East Coast, where he teaches Capoeira.”
To this, the modulated voice of her superior interjected, “I’m unfamiliar.”
“My understanding is that it’s not a highly lethal form of self-defense, but more a combination of game, dance, gymnastics, and martial arts. One has to train for years to effectively utilize it in a confrontation, as most of the maneuvers are more flashy than efficient. That said, it’s worth noting that Ms. Silva began at an early age. She often taught classes in her father’s absence.”
“Any arrest record?” the voice asked.
“Yes, though all have been expunged as they occurred while Ms. Silva was a minor. Nothing of particular note—teenage rebellion more than anything,” Olivia said. “She has a high school diploma, and had some college education before she decided to join the NYPD at the age of twenty.
“This is where her history becomes more interesting,” Olivia continued. “Rylee left the Police Academy with no explanation. Within a month of dropping out, she won a considerable sum of money. The details are suspicious, as she had no prior history of gambling, yet she wagered a majority of her life savings on a single high stakes bet. The winnings have allowed her to remain unemployed since.”
“Is there evidence she rigged the game?” the voice asked.
“No. Rylee either had inside information, or precognition of the outcome. Regardless, Ms. Silva only engaged in the behavior the once. She paid taxes on the winnings, and then put a large portion of the money into a bank account that she uses sparingly. She’s made only one considerable withdrawal for a non-necessity. According to the DMV, her only means of transportation is a high-end motorcycle she bought off one of the officers she met before dropping out of the academy. Since leaving Manhattan, she stays off-grid as much as possible. The room she rented in Seattle was paid for in cash, and is well below her means. The motel attendant, once pressed, admitted that Ms. Silva bribed him in order to provide a room without requiring identification.”
The voice was quiet for a while, absorbing the details of Olivia’s report. “If she was unaware of our investigation until Jonathan informed her of The Cell’s existence,” her superior said, “it is possible that she is making efforts to hide from someone. Have you inferred anything else from her electronic data trail?”
Olivia nodded. �
��According to phone records, she has had almost no contact with friends or family since dropping out of the Academy. Before she acquired her current funds, she used a credit card to purchase martial arts instruction from a school teaching a fighting style based on Eskrima, a far deadlier combat methodology than what her father teaches.
“Given the clear behavior overlaps, and the weapon she had in her possession, we have good reason to assume Rylee is in similar circumstances as other subjects. Unlike Mr. Tibbs, she escaped our notice. Rylee was never taken to a hospital with unexplained blood loss,” Olivia said. “If she endured a similar incident, she managed to do so without any authorities becoming aware of it.”
“Any additional items?” the voice asked.
“Two final details,” Olivia said. “Ms. Silva’s apartment on the East Coast has been monitored since we became aware of her. Early this morning, her father arrived. He knocked for a few minutes, but when Rylee never came to the door, he asked a few of her neighbors if they had seen his daughter coming and going recently.”
“So, she left town and told no one where she was going, even her family.”
“It seems,” Olivia said. “Although I mentioned the apartment because a team entered and searched the premises. What is promising is that they found a collection of Ms. Silva’s journals going back to her early childhood.”
This was followed by another pause. “Seems you would have mentioned this earlier if any new information had been gleamed from the entries,” the voice said.
“Unfortunately, the books are all handwritten in Portuguese, and accurate translation is slowing the process. However, the last dated entry in the journals ended in March,” Olivia said. “It may be that she has a current journal in the possessions she brought with her.”
“Has our main asset been briefed on all of this information?” The voice inquired. “She is aware that Ms. Silva should not be taken lightly in the event of a confrontation?”
Olivia paused, not having expected the rather peculiar question. “Yes, Leah is aware of all current details. But…” Olivia found herself hesitating uncomfortably. “Sir, have you drawn a conclusion you’ve not shared? I ask only because it seems highly ill-advised for her to engage in a conflict with Ms. Silva during this investigation.”
“In the last twenty-four hours, the intimate bond Leah has been building with Jonathan Tibbs has encountered perceivable threats. Seeing as how she cannot abandon the relationship, reacting in a manner believable within the context of how the household perceives her could prove….” The voice pondered the appropriate words. “Highly complicated.”
Paige woke to the sounds of her roommates laughing downstairs. Still drowsy, she climbed out of bed and headed to the upstairs bathroom.
“I don’t know,” she heard Hayden say.
“Well, I vote yes, can’t wait,” Collin replied.
They’re up early today, she thought. She closed the bathroom door and set to the task of morning hygiene rituals. When she came back out, she overheard Collin again—he sounded excited.
“Let’s get going. Tibbs shouldn’t be home for a few hours,” Collin said. “Hayden can text us if he shows up early. Don’t want to ruin it.”
“Fine, but you’re not making me an accomplice,” Hayden said. “I’m pleading ignorance if he kills the two of you.”
“Noted.”
Curious now, she heard the shuffling of chairs as she headed down the stairs.
“Don’t worry, Hayden,” said a woman’s voice that she didn’t recognize. “He isn’t going to be mad.”
By the time Paige reached the bottom floor, all she saw was the garage door shutting and Hayden hunched over a cup of coffee, looking both worried and yet discouraged at having been left behind. There were two other coffee cups at the table. Hayden, despite his expression, looked like he’d been up for a while—even showered already.
Still not entirely awake, Paige yawned before asking, “Did we have company?”
“Yeah, some friend of Jonathan’s came over last night,” Hayden said. “She’s fun, you’ll like her.”
The sound of motorcycles came to life in the garage.
“Jonathan had a girl over last night?” Paige frowned. “I thought he was out with Leah.”
Hayden shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied. “They got in pretty late.”
Paige reached for the pot of coffee, thinking it over as she did. She vaguely remembered getting a text message from Leah telling her to call her when she woke up. Then she grew worried and irritated at the same time. “Wait a second,” Paige said, turning back to Hayden.
She wasn’t exactly happy with Jonathan at the moment, but still, it would have been a nice change to see him stop brooding for a day. Did her roommate have no clue what was good for him? At times, it was as though he’d declared a jihad on his own happiness.
And Leah, Paige thought. She was excited about last night.
She had caught her friend with a ridiculous grin more than a few times yesterday. Paige had no doubt that Leah had wanted the evening to end a certain way, and it wasn’t with a kiss on the cheek and Jonathan bringing some other girl home. She was starting to worry what Jonathan might have done to blow a sure thing so badly.
Paige’s eyes narrowed as she watched Hayden, who seemed to be inching his way out of the room as though he was unsure if the irritation on her face would become directed toward him.
“This girl slept here?” Paige asked.
Hayden shrugged innocently. Then his face changed, as he suddenly appeared to get why she seemed angry. “Oh, no, no, no,” he said. “Jonathan slept on the couch.”
Paige looked at him incredulously. “That wasn’t what I meant….” She thought about it more. “Though, now that you mention it, I’d have killed him if he did that to my best friend.”
Hayden, getting more nervous, pointed to the pillow and blanket on the couch.
“I’m gonna call Leah and see what moronic thing Jonathan said to her last night,” Paige said before leaving to find her phone. “Who is this girl anyway? Why did she stay over?”
“Her name is Rylee. I think she is from out of town. Jonathan—he didn’t really explain. But she is nice enough,” Hayden said. “Collin seemed to hit it off with her.”
Paige felt her eyes wanting to narrow, and before she thought better of it, a question escaped her lips. “Is she pretty?”
Hayden looked back at her for a moment, smiling like he might actually dare to find something funny, until he saw how unamusing Paige found the question. “I don’t know, maybe?” he said, his voice betraying that he had no idea what the right answer was. A moment later, he shrugged. “I like her accent.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SUNDAY | OCTOBER 9, 2005 | 12:00 PM | SEATTLE
“YOU WILL BE handsomely reimbursed for your cooperation,” Olivia said.
Margot Kay had worked with Rivers before, but this was different. She’d gotten an inkling that this assignment was not going to be like their previous dealings when he’d informed her that she wouldn’t be able to work from home. In the past, he’d hired her as a consultant for work he was doing with the Bureau, mostly tracking down hackers attacking atypical targets. Last time he’d called her was because, despite the fact that they could detect a multinational company’s computer security was being repeatedly breached, the FBI couldn’t figure out what the hacker was actually trying to accomplish. That was where Margot came in.
“Should you feel that, ethically, you cannot participate, your services will not be required. However, failure to keep any portions of this discussion between the three of us will be considered an act of treason,” Olivia said.
The woman had a tone to her voice that sounded like she was reading a speech she’d given so many times that she was bored with the formality of it, as though she already knew what the outcome would be.
Margot wasn’t a profiler by any means. Rivers repeatedly told her she was a genius, and she always felt as th
ough he were letting flattery off its leash. She wasn’t a genius and she had the I.Q. scores to prove it. She did happen to be exceptionally talented at three things: Margot wrote software, knew networks, and she recognized patterns.
“Should you wish to continue, there are non-disclosure agreements in the folder in front of you that will need to be signed. If you would like to read them in their entirety, please feel free, but the places where your initials and signature are required have been highlighted,” Olivia said.
A day after her vague invitation from Rivers, she had found herself at the Seattle airport, being driven to an office building that looked like it was only ever utilized for the very type of conversation she was having now. She would describe said conversation the same way her son described it when she asked him if he would like to visit his grandmother at the old folks’ home: she was being “volun-told.”
“Do you require a moment to consider if you would like to proceed, Ms. Kay?”
Rivers didn’t look comfortable with the process. He stood to the side of them as the woman he’d introduced as the lead running the investigation, this Olivia, sat at the desk in front of her, going through the motions. She got the distinct impression that this was not a real offer of time to think, but a test to see how long it took her to decide. If she took too long, the woman would have to wonder what Margot had been conflicted about. Margot had a strong feeling that Olivia was not someone she wanted having doubts about her.
“No,” Margot said. “That won’t be necessary. Agent Rivers has never requested my assistance for anything I wouldn’t have volunteered for myself.”
Olivia nodded slowly and Margot chanced a glance to Rivers. He smiled reassuringly as Olivia pulled a pen from the front drawer of her desk and pushed it toward Margot.
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