by Jeramy Gates
“That’s it?” she said.
He grinned. “That’s it. Now for the moment of truth…” Matt plugged the hard drive into an adapter on his desk. Val watched the windows flicker as he moved from screen to screen, scanning the contents of the drive. He paused when he came to a file called “Documents.”
“This should be interesting,” he said. Matt leaned closer. He started opening the files, and Val leaned in over his shoulder.
“This is what we’re after,” Matt said, copying several dozen files at once. “This is Alexander’s personal docs, his emails and private messages. Maybe even his passwords.”
“That’s great!”
“Maybe. Thing is, it’s all encrypted. It’ll take a while to crack the files.”
“What about the other ones?” Val said. “Is there anything we can read?”
“Sure.” Matt clicked on a filed titled: Blackstar Fusion: ASP Brochure.” He expanded the document to full screen. It was a short, three-page sales brochure. The cover was a graphic of a multi-engine electric drone with rifle barrels attached to the wings.
“Drones?” Matt said as the image appeared. He swiveled in his chair to stare at Valkyrie. “I didn’t realize Blackstar had a drone program. This brochure must have been used to sell it to investors.”
“What else does it say?”
Matt flipped the pages. “Listen to this: ‘ASP: The Aerial Sniper Project. Thanks to all-new laser and radio technologies, this state-of-the-art unmanned aerial drone has the ability to track, target, and eliminate subjects as small as a baseball from up to three miles away!’ Good grief Val, this thing is amazing. Do you know what kind of stability it takes to do something like that?”
“Not really.”
Matt leaned back. “Imagine shooting your gun at a target, except you’re shooting from the deck of a boat that’s bobbing in the waves.”
“Okay, tricky.”
“Uh-huh. Now imagine that your boat is three miles away from the target, and instead of shooting horizontally, you’re shooting laterally from a high altitude, with the wind blowing.”
“I take it back. That doesn’t sound tricky, it sounds impossible.”
“You have no idea. I can’t even imagine what kind of software made this thing work. Do you…” Matt hesitated.
“What?”
“Do you think your husband may have been a drone engineer?”
Val bit her lip. “I don’t know… This would explain why he never spoke to me about his work, or only spoke about it in vague terms. I had no idea he might be involved in anything like this.”
“I’ll tell you, if Tom designed this thing, your husband must have been some kind of genius.”
“I always thought so,” she murmured. “Now, I’m not sure what he was.”
Matt gave her a sympathetic smile. “Let’s take a break,” he said. “It’ll take a while to hack into these encrypted files. Want some pizza? I have leftovers in the fridge.”
Val said that would be fine. The pair adjourned to the kitchen area. Matt had acquired an old kitchen island that served as his table. He also had a mini fridge and a sink with running water, but no stove. He warmed the pizza in a toaster oven. “I have a hot plate for cooking,” he explained, “but usually, I just make a sandwich or order some takeout. Jennifer has her eye out for a big electric stove, but if she finds one, I’ll have to upgrade the wiring. Want a soda?” Val gave him a look. “I know, I know,” he said, reading her smile. “It’s supposed to be called pop, but people around here give me weird looks when I say that.”
“Water is fine.”
He turned to reach for a glass and said, “Oh, Jennifer left a couple bottles of wine when she made dinner the other day. Want some?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m not sure if it’s any good.” He pulled a bottle out from the cabinet under the island. “I don’t really know anything about wine.”
“Napa,” Val said, scanning the label. “Looks good. I bet this wasn’t cheap.”
Matt gave a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “I don’t think Jennifer would have paid too much… maybe she borrowed it from her parent’s wine cellar.”
“Oh, are they rich?”
“Filthy. They don’t approve of me.”
“I’m sure they’ll warm up once they get to know you.”
“Don’t count on it,” Matt said. “They’re the stuffiest people I’ve ever met. They think everyone is beneath them, especially me.”
“Oh? And Jennifer still dates you?”
“Sure,” he grinned. “I’m irresistible.” Val laughed. Matt tugged on the corkscrew and it came free with a pop!
“It sounds like you and Jennifer are spending a lot of time together. Is it serious?”
“I suppose. She bought me a sofa… It doesn’t get much more serious than that.”
Val gave him a smile and strangled her temptation to tell Matt how cute he was. Instead, she took another sip of her wine. She could remember being that young once, feeling like the world was full of hope and possibilities. She had been young and free, going to college, dating a handsome boy and feeling like the whole world was stretched out before her. The memories remained, but she felt detached from them now. It was like watching a movie playing through a storefront window. There should have been feelings attached to those images. She knew they were there, somewhere, deep down inside of her. They were raging with all the violence and turbulence of a hurricane at sea… but they were out of reach, locked away behind a wall that kept her safe and calm. She could sense them, and from time to time almost reach out and touch them, but she withdrew after a momentary graze. It was too terrifying, the idea of feeling all of those emotions. Too dangerous. Better to let them fade away than to experience that kind of pain again.
“…So next semester, I’ll be in a much better position,” Matt was saying. “I may even have some job offers. What do you think?”
Val looked at him, trying to piece together the fabric of the conversation she had missed. “Sounds good,” she said.
“You weren’t really listening, were you?”
“Sorry. I’m a little distracted.”
“I understand. I feel the same way.”
The toaster oven dinged. Matt served their reheated pizza on paper plates. They made small talk over dinner, and shortly returned to check on the computer’s progress. It wasn’t promising. Matt let out a resigned sigh as he watched the software working.
“It’s pretty powerful encryption,” he said. “This could take all night.”
“That’s fine. I need to check into a hotel anyway. I’m exhausted.”
“Are you sure? You can sleep here. Use my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“That’s very kind, but I need to unpack. Besides, if my back starts to seize up, I may need to take a pain pill. I’ll just call a cab.”
“Don’t bother.” Matt reached for a set of keys and tossed them to her. “Take my car.”
Val caught them and gave him a look. “The Charger? Are you sure?”
“No sweat. I don’t have anywhere to go. If there’s an emergency, I can call Jennifer. Besides, I know you’ve been aching to drive that thing since you bought it.”
“That I have,” Val said with a wicked grin.
Chapter 12
Carver’s good eye snapped open. His right hand closed on the grip of the 1911-A1 .45 under his pillow. He waited, listening, not even breathing as he tried to isolate the change in atmosphere that had shocked him awake.
For a person like Carver, there is something about the air at night, the way it carries sound, the way it moves and tells stories. Most people don’t notice this, or if they do, only superficially. They enjoy the way the night air caresses their skin, the way it carries the scent of flowers and cooking food, but rarely do they close their eyes and open their senses to know that it tells so much more. Sound, motion, and scent blend in such a way that, to the trained mind, they weave a tapestry of information. T
hey mingle like paints on a palette, blending into a masterpiece that transcends mundane awareness to border on ethereal.
For Carver, it was not the sound of someone walking between the trailer and the trees outside that woke him, nor was it footsteps or a cracking branch. Rather, it was the lack of something. It was an empty space, a momentary change in the volume of the crickets and the dull whoosh of moving night air. It was sonic: an interruption in the cadence of the land, of all the desert’s living and moving things, and perhaps the slightest lingering scent of something -or someone- unfamiliar.
Carver slid back the covers and rose to his feet. He moved across the room, his weight gliding from the flat of one foot to the next. He avoided the loose, squeaky section of flooring in the doorway and moved down the hall, sticking to the outside wall. The old plywood floors in his trailer were loose and noisy if a person stepped in the wrong spot. Carver knew this well, and had left it that way intentionally.
At the end of the short hallway, just outside the kitchen, he waited. Outside, the shadowy figure of a man passed before the windows. Carver heard the slight creak of the wooden steps and the quiet movement of the screen door. Slowly, the handle turned. With a cautious and deliberate lack of speed, the door cracked open. As the opening widened, the starlit sky silhouetted the shape of a man about six-five with a thin build and dark hair.
Carver had seen all he needed to see. He squeezed the trigger, firing four quick rounds into the intruder’s chest. The door flew open as the man fell back. There was a crash as the screen door slammed into the trailer’s aluminum siding, and another as the body toppled over the picnic table and hit the ground.
Carver shielded himself with the doorframe as he threw his gaze around the property. The echo of gunfire faded, but the smell of burnt powder lingered in his nostrils. He saw no signs of life nearby. The night had gone silent. It seemed the intruder had been alone.
Carver hesitated to turn on the porch light, and not just for safety reasons. What if it was someone he knew? What if this had been an innocent person, someone who had come to the wrong place by accident? He dismissed these thoughts. No one with good intention breaks into your home in the middle of the night. A lost stranger would have knocked. Same with a friend. The killing was justified. The real question was who had he killed?
Carver hit the light and scanned the shadowy place on the other side of the table. The dark form was motionless, almost certainly dead. With all due caution, he approached the body. The man was in his mid-twenties, short dark hair, dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting button-front shirt. Carver knelt to take the pulse, and too late noticed the bullet-proof vest.
There was a flash of movement. A metal baton smacked him across the back of his hand. Jolts of pain shot through his arm, and Carver dropped his pistol. He caught a glint of light on a silvery blade, and dodged as it flashed past his throat.
Carver rolled, coming up in a fighting stance. The assassin was already on his feet, shifting his weight from side to side. The man’s eyes were pools of black in the dim light, and insanity radiated out of his gaunt features. In his left hand, he held his baton. In his right, he brandished a Ka-Bar knockoff. Carver could tell at a glance that it wasn’t genuine. This knife was flea market junk. Flashy. Designed to catch the eye, but not to be useful in any practical way. That didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous, though. The factories usually put a nice sharp edge on those knives using a belt sander. This too, was to impress gullible shoppers. The edge wouldn’t last, but then again neither would the knife.
The man came at him, blade flashing in the dull yellow of the patio light. Carver’s glance strayed to the pistol on the ground between them. The man noticed this flicker of his gaze, and grinned. He leapt forward, knife coming down in a quick overhead stab. Carver twisted, stepping into the blow. He caught the arm as it came down. He sidestepped, simultaneously yanking the man forward, using his attacker’s weight against him. Caught by surprise, the man rolled over Carver’s shoulder and landed hard on his back. With a quick twist of his wrist, Carver took possession of the weapon.
Twisting on the ground, the man swiped at Carver’s ankles with the steel baton. Carver danced back. Instantly, his opponent was back on his feet. Hatred blazed in the man’s eyes. He switched the baton to his right hand and lowered his stance, readying for another attack. Carver turned the handle of the knife in his hand, holding it upside-down so that the blade lined up with his forearm. He adjusted his stance, left leg forward, ready to shift his weight in an instant.
The attacker came at him. The baton flashed. Carver danced back, circling, weight shifting as he moved. The knife felt foreign in his hand. Clumsy, unbalanced: cheap. It didn’t matter. It could have been a sharp stick for all he cared. The baton came down a second time, an angled overhead blow aimed directly at Carver’s face. Carver reached in, smacking the man’s wrist away with his left hand. The attack went wide, and Carver lashed out with the knife, delivering a deep cut to the man’s upper right chest. The attack cut through his shirt, slid across the edge of the Kevlar vest, and bit into the flesh above the man’s armpit.
The would-be assassin let out a wild, primal scream. Carver grinned.
The man snarled, lip curling as he lowering his stance. Carver’s gaze strayed to the wound. Deep enough, he thought, but still an inch away from the artery. Next time.
The attacker came at him with a shriek. He swung the baton in wide flashing arcs. Carver danced back, moving around the picnic table as the man pressed the attack. The baton hit the table with a loud crack! Carver kept moving, waiting for an opening. Without warning, the man dropped to knees. Carver’s eye went wide. He’d forgotten about the gun.
The pistol came up, firing. Carver leapt to the side. He threw the knife as he moved. The assassin managed to squeeze off three rounds. There was a crunching noise as the knife blade embedded itself in the man’s left eye. The gun went silent. He staggered back a step, shaking and lurching. He sank to his knees, the weapons clattering to the patio bricks as he fell over backwards. The assassin’s skull hit the bricks with the sound of a hollow melon. This time, he was dead for real.
Carver stood over the body, the fake leather grip on the handle of the cheap knife protruding from the dead man’s face. “Hurts, don’t it?” Carver grumbled as he absently readjusted the patch on his own eye.
He retrieved his firearm and searched the body. According to the driver’s license, the would-be assassin was named Rex Brandison, from Reno. Carver had never heard the name before. Rex carried no other identifying information, but he did have a can of Mace and a pair of brass knuckles in his pockets.
Carver turned his attention to other details. A quick search of the property revealed a silver hybrid just down the hill. In the rear compartment, Carver found a shovel, a tarp, and duct tape. Carver studied the items, rolling it all over in his mind. Rex was clearly not a professional, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t killed before. His confidence, his preparation -the tools of the trade stored in the trunk of his car- it all added up to at least a semi-pro level of hitman. But was that right? Had Rex been a hitman, or something else?
Carver’s mind flashed back to his conversation with Valkyrie. They had discussed the possibility that the Informant -Levin Alexander- may have hired a man like this before his death. Was that the reason for this late-night visit? Had Rex been looking for Valkyrie? Did this visit somehow tie in to her crusade against Blackstar Fusion? Could this man possibly be the serial killer she had been searching for?
No, there were too many questions for him to come to a conclusion like that. It did peak his curiosity, though. It also ratcheted up his concern for Valkyrie. It was bad enough that she was trying to track down a serial killer on her own. He couldn’t imagine how or when assassins had become part of the equation.
First things first, Carver thought. For now, he had to do something about the body. He could call the police of course, but that would lead to the inevitable hours-long questioning that
would go nowhere, except possibly to his arrest. All things considered, the law was on his side, but that didn’t mean some shiny new D.A. looking to make a name for himself wouldn’t decide to make an example out of Carver. Even if Carver made a few phone calls and went over the attorney’s head, it still might take weeks to get sprung. That would cost him a lot of business. More than he could afford. As spartan as Carver’s lifestyle was, when it came down to it, he’d just as soon keep his shooting range, his property, even his crappy little trailer.
No, it was better just to get rid of the thing. Bury it somewhere and be done with it. Conveniently, he had a tarp and shovel ready to go. Rex had thought of everything. But Carver couldn’t bury it here on the property. If the law ever suspected anything, they might nose around a little and find the body. It would have to be somewhere else. He’d need to move the vehicle as well, which would inevitably lead to leaving behind traces of DNA. That wouldn’t do.
Carver climbed into the hybrid and drove back up to the trailer. He went to the shed, and came back with a gas can. He put it in the back seat, and went to work wrapping the body in the tarp. There were only two ways to get rid of DNA, and Carver didn’t have time for bleach.
Chapter 13
Valkyrie checked into a motel on the northern banks of the Mystic River at eleven p.m. The price was acceptable, at least for the Boston-Cambridge area. The décor was contemporary but elegant, the employees polite and well-trained, and the atmosphere subdued. After seeing her room, Valkyrie’s only real complaint was that she had no balcony. It wasn’t a deal breaker. She wouldn’t be staying long.
She took a long, hot shower before bed and came out steaming, lobster-red, and so relaxed that she skipped taking a pain pill before sliding between the sheets. The pill she’d taken that morning still seemed to be working, and Val refused to take more unless she absolutely had to. She turned out the light, opened her Kindle, and began to read where she had left off.
