Terror Machine

by Denison Hatch

  Find Einstein.

  Jake had pulled down the mirror over the desk and replaced it with a corkboard. Pinned to the board was an elaborate chronological schematic of Dr. Borin’s entire life. Jake’s board included a timeline of the doctor’s important relationships, jobs, and addresses. And more. Paychecks. Photographs. Research reports. It was all there. After a few days, the schematic had grown beyond the confines of the corkboard itself. It was spreading like a spider’s web and creeping along the wallpaper. Luckily for Tony, Jake had the forethought to use tape instead of pins after his research had exited the corkboard. But anyone who opened the door might deduce that Rivett was becoming just as crazy as the mad scientist he was chasing.

  Jake and the rest of the joint task force had successfully smashed up the Brooklyn terror cell based in Best Diner, and the risk of another attack was virtually zero with Hanafi in jail. That result was certainly a success. But after everything, Dr. Borin was still on the loose with his machine. From what Jake knew about him, it was almost unbelievable that Dr. Borin was the one member of the cell who had gotten away. It was also poetic. Nothing seemed to stop Dr. Borin. He was like quicksand. The more Jake researched him, the more he understood that Dr. Borin had no allegiances at all.

  Jake’s morning task was to watch every single video that Katinka Johanssen had ever posted online. It was weird to watch videos of a dead person, and it might have bothered Jake if he wasn’t already wallowing deep down in a pit of darkness. In that sense, the videos actually became a slight outlet to distract him from thinking about Mona. The unfortunate problem was that Katinka’s videos weren’t revealing any new information. They’d already been examined with a fine-toothed comb by multiple forensic specialists. Anything related to her research or work with Dr. Borin had been transcribed, filed, and analyzed. But that didn’t matter to Jake. He was conducting his own investigation now—from scratch. Katinka’s most recent videos had all been directed at Dr. Borin personally, but her account had started years earlier. Back then, her posts had been both fewer and farther between, as well as quite random when it came to content. These were the ones Jake was watching.

  On the screen, Katinka was waxing eloquent about her friends in the undergraduate program at Penn State: “I decided I’d stay for summer school, because my friend Liz had a spare bedroom in her apartment and I could keep the job in the cafeteria and . . .”

  In the middle of her diatribe, the door cracked open. It was Tony.

  “How you doing?”

  “Fine,” Rivett replied.

  “Susan called.”

  “Did you kiss the ring?”

  “She said she’s been trying your cell all week . . .”

  “Don’t know where it is.” Rivett pointed to a foot-high pile of papers and folders on the desk. “Somewhere under there.”

  “There aren’t very many cops who refuse to answer the chief of police’s phone call.”

  “Doesn’t she have bigger and better things to do than worry about me?”

  “She just can’t quit you, I guess. Told me you’re on her mind. Then there’s the thing with Axel Bossonov that we’re doing. She wanted to know if you’re in.”

  “I’m not in.”

  “I know.”

  “How was she? All warm and fuzzy, I’m sure . . .”

  “She’s about to put in paperwork for mental-health leave—for you.”

  “No,” Jake replied.

  “Well . . . You better get on the phone and tell her that. Otherwise, you know Susan. She doesn’t ask for permission.”

  “If I go on leave, am I gonna come back from it?” Jake asked.

  “That’s for you to answer, buddy.”

  Jake didn’t reply.

  “Listen, we’re going to go to the bay for the fireworks tomorrow night. Want to come?”

  “I got a lot of work,” Jake replied.

  “Come along with us. Consider it your rent payment,” Tony said.

  “Wait a minute . . .”

  In the background, Katinka’s video had continued to play. Jake rotated back to his computer and rewound the footage by thirty seconds. He hit play again. Katinka spoke:

  “But she’s working at this doctor’s lab, so I think I might get some part-time hours there, too. It’s, like, seventeen dollars an hour, which is great. Guy seems nice. Liz said that he did a barbecue retreat at his lake house in Mattituck for all the researchers last weekend and he wasn’t even sleazy about it . . .”

  “You hear that?” Jake asked Tony. He rewound the video again.

  “If you don’t call Susan back, they’ll cut your logins . . .” Tony deflected.

  “Tony, did you know Dr. Borin had a lake house? Maybe his mother? Cause there’s nothing showing that Max owns one . . .”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Jake popped out of his chair, suddenly filled with more energy than Tony had witnessed in weeks. He began scrounging around for a backpack. Tony interrupted only when Jake pulled a personal gun from a small case and tossed it into the pack.

  “Jake . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you’re not going to listen to me if I tell you what to do. So I won’t. But I just want to remind you that grief and depression are not things to be ashamed of.”

  “I don’t have mental-health problems, Tony.”

  “Think before you act. Please.”

  “Action requires thinking.”

  “I don’t want you to do something that changes your life forever.”

  “Are you kidding me, Tony?”

  “Huh?”

  “That already happened, man. Mona’s gone. I’m not worried about my life anymore.” Jake pushed past Tony and headed for the door. He turned back one more time. “Love you, Tony,” Jake said.

  “You too,” Tony replied.

  ▪

  Shep Moseley did a double take when Jake Rivett arrived at the joint task force’s office in One Police Plaza. No one had seen Rivett since the funeral, and the office itself was quiet now—nothing like the days before the terror cell was busted. Moseley himself had actually been packing up, because this was his last day in the city. He’d already checked out of his hotel and was about to drive back down to Maryland to join his family for the first time in a month—for New Year’s Eve fireworks.

  “Hey, Rivett. Whatcha doin’?” Shep asked.

  “Maxine Borin . . . Where are her files?”

  “The doctor’s mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Over there.” Shep pointed to a filing cabinet.

  Jake stepped up to the locked cabinet and typed in a PIN code.

  When the lock popped open, Shep exhaled. “Wasn’t sure if you even still had access up here. Didn’t want to have to do some ninja moves on you. They’re cutting mine tomorrow.”

  “How come?”

  “Last day, bro.”

  “Maybe mine too—if I can find his fucking vacation house.”

  “Vacation house?” Shep questioned.

  “I know the Borins have some sort of lake house. In Mattituck. But nothing’s on Max’s tax returns,” Jake said. He continued to scan through Ms. Borin’s paperwork. “And it’s not on hers, either. How’s that possible? No capital gains sales. And if they own it, they gotta pay property taxes somehow . . .”

  “I dunno. I mean, I can get into those records, too . . . Need some help?” Shep answered.

  “The husband. Borin’s father. Deceased. Can you look up his old returns?”

  “Maybe,” Shep replied. “But why? You’re still hunting down the doctor? I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s not dangerous. We already sicced the US Marshals on him.”

  “They didn’t get him yet.”

  “Hold up.” Shep started pulling up old tax records through an access point from his agency into the IRS. “Sure, I found the old man’s records. I’ll print them out for you . . .”

  Jake practically sprinted over to the printer, scanning through each tax return
as it rolled out. He didn’t have to look long. The elder Borins had filed married-but-separate returns, and listed on Dr. Borin’s father’s return was a property-tax deduction for a house different from their primary home.

  “One Forest Park Lane,” Jake said. “Where’s that?”

  After a few taps on the computer, Shep answered, “Mattituck—Long Island.”

  “Bingo,” Rivett answered dryly. He folded up the paper with the address and pushed it into his pocket. Then he turned, his shoulders slouched, and headed for the door.

  “What’s up? You going out there?” Shep asked Rivett, who didn’t reply. “Listen. I’m supposed to drive about six hours down to Maryland tonight. But if you need backup, I’m there for you. I’ll do that shit for you. I don’t like fireworks. I like the real thing.”

  “Thanks, Shep,” Jake replied. “But I’m just going home.”

  “After all that? You’re going home?”

  “Damn right,” Rivett replied. He stepped out of the office.

  It wasn’t thirty seconds before the door opened and Mr. White walked into the joint task force office.

  “You just missed Rivett,” Shep said.

  “Rivett?” Mr. White asked.

  “Guy’s tuned up.”

  “Drunk?”

  “No. Mad as shit, and he’s gonna go kill the doctor.”

  “Tell me everything,” Mr. White commanded.

  “He came in here talking about a lake house he was convinced Dr. Borin owns. Turns out he might be right. Family had a vacation house up in Mattituck. Not sure if the marshals know about it,” Shep said.

  “Shep,” Mr. White said.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “I don’t think we’re making it back to Chevy Chase tonight,” Mr. White said.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  NEW YEAR’S EVE

  The Southold region of Long Island, on the north fork, still maintained a woodsy ambiance without the pomp and circumstance of the Hamptons to the south. Jake rode his motorcycle past a mix of new developments, old shacks, small farm communities, and bustling wineries as he headed towards the far northeastern edge of Long Island—a massive contrast to the Gotham from which he had just departed. As Jake rode, his burdens finally began to lift—just a little. It wasn’t full relief, of course. He had no idea when that would come, if ever. But at least he felt slightly better.

  His entire life had been dedicated to getting to New York. From the moment he’d discovered punk music back in his hometown of Albany, as a way of getting away from the rants and tirades of his father, he had prepared for the city. New York, Gotham, the heavy steel and the dark alleys—all of it had been his driving force. But Jake knew change was afoot. He was going to leave the city permanently. He had no idea exactly what the future would entail. Who knows . . . Given what he was about to do, it might involve a lot of time in a jail cell. But Jake did know he wasn’t going back to New York.

  He was sure that Maximilian Borin would be at the lake house at One Forest Park Lane. Even though he’d spent his entire career as a detective double-checking and verifying, there was nothing that Jake was more sure about. Dr. Borin would be there.

  ▪

  When Jake arrived at the house’s long driveway, he slowed and jumped off his bike. He rolled the Ducati about twenty feet into the woods and began to walk the rest of the way. He avoided the driveway and carefully tracked through the wet forest surrounding the cabin.

  Eventually, Jake emerged beside a small lake. He could see Dr. Borin’s lake house across the water. Still camouflaged by his surroundings, he strafed around the lake until he was just twenty or thirty feet from the house. Borin didn’t make it hard for Jake. Within a few minutes, Jake spotted him through an open window, pacing around the living room of the lake house. Jake pulled out his gun and strode towards the front door. He assumed it would be open, and it was.

  ▪

  “Hello, Max,” Rivett said. He stepped into Dr. Borin’s living room.

  Dr. Borin turned. He stared at Jake.

  “Not very security conscious, are we?” Jake remarked.

  “Jake Rivett. Omer failed . . .”

  “You failed.”

  “I knew someone would find me. It was inevitable,” Borin replied.

  “That’s why you left your door unlocked?”

  Dr. Borin shrugged. “I wasn’t running. Nowhere to go. Had work to do.”

  “Your machine?”

  Jake nodded at the parts to Dr. Borin’s machine. The electronics filled the entire living room. This lake house was no longer a vacation home. It had become, in fact, the doctor’s final laboratory. Dr. Borin had dragged all the furniture in the living room to the edges, leaving the center of the room open. In that area, he had used four-by-fours to construct the frame that held his MRI device up in the air. Underneath the MRI, Dr. Borin had duct taped a cheap plastic chair to the tile floor. The whole contraption lacked refinement, but in some ways, that made it look all the more menacing.

  “I wondered what it looked like,” Jake said. “Your terror machine.”

  “It’s so much more than that,” Dr. Borin said. “I needed to make sure it was perfect.”

  “Why?” Jake shook his head.

  “Because it must be ready.”

  “For what?”

  “For you, Detective Rivett.”

  Jake took a step back. The doctor’s response unnerved him slightly. He trained his gun on Dr. Borin.

  “For your people—your scientists. Once there’s a proof of concept, it’s out there. Proof can never be cancelled. Even if they decide to destroy the machine, the feds will always know it existed. There will be reports. If you think for one second that the government won’t study my work intently, you don’t know how the world works. And one day they’ll have a need for something like this. They’ll go back to my records, my schematics, my designs . . . I don’t care about being caught. Going to jail . . . doesn’t bother me at all. Because it’s what I added to the world that matters the most. And no one will be able to take that away from me.”

  “You killed a hundred innocent people, Max.”

  “I didn’t condone what Hanafi was doing.”

  “Well, you might be right about your machine,” Jake replied, “but you’re definitely wrong about one thing . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “You aren’t going to jail.” Jake pointed at the machine with his gun. “Turn it on.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Turn it on.”

  ▪

  A few hours later, the sun had set over Mattituck and the lake. Rivett stood in the kitchen of the lake house and observed Maximilian Borin. Dr. Borin was handcuffed and tied onto the seat of his own creation. Jake had found enough duct tape and rope inside the garage to do the job properly. The MRI device was positioned over Borin’s head, and it was running. Borin sat placidly inside his machine, repeating phrases as requested.

  “I want to go swimming,” Dr. Borin said.

  “Say it with me, three times,” the machine’s digital voice commanded.

  “I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming.”

  As Jake listened to Dr. Borin drone on, the words eventually faded away like a grandfather clock’s chimes—present but invisible. Jake gazed outside. It was chilly, and there was some snow on the ground, but the weather wasn’t unbearable. The winter had been forgiving, and the lake wasn’t even frozen over yet. After making sure Dr. Borin was still fastened securely, Jake stepped out of the kitchen and sat down on a lounge chair on the front porch.

  The last yellow and orange hues disappeared from the sky just as the first explosions ignited.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  At first Jake flinched. Then he relaxed. Duh. It was New Year’s Eve. The fireworks were small, erupting in random locations high in the night sky. They weren’t being launched above the lake, and they weren’t for Jake. Most likely, they were coming from the ocean-side beaches and pie
rs a few miles away, designed for fun-filled gatherings of family, friends, and loved ones.

  Jake allowed himself to enjoy the incandescent show just for a moment, until finally the grief began to hit. The sadness blasted into him like the fireworks above. All of a sudden, Mona was all he could think about. This wasn’t supposed to be what New Year’s Eve looked like. New Year’s Eve was their wedding. It was too much to handle, even for Jake Rivett. The fireworks above began to crescendo, but he stopped watching. He leaned forward on the chair and put his head in his hands.

  And then Jake Rivett wept.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AS USUAL, PETROV DROVE AND Roschin talked.

  “Anyone else feel like what we’re about to do is a little bit wrong?” Roschin asked.

  Petrov grunted in affirmation.

  “Shut up, Roschin,” Axel Bossonov said from the back seat of the truck.

  “Why you tellin’ me to shut up? I’m talkin’ bout ethical-ness.”

  “We need to be on our A-game,” Axel replied.

  “When I talk, it gets me amped up.”

  Slap. Axel Bossonov smacked the left side of Roschin’s face. “When I tell you to shut up, you shut the fuck up. And don’t even think about bringing up the concept of ethics. Not today,” Axel said.

  Needless to say, Roschin shut up.

  The sun rose on a new year while the three men drove east from Brooklyn towards a warehouse district in Long Island. While perhaps slightly hungover, not even Roschin had hit the bottle hard the night before. Today’s mission was too important. The three men were at an utterly pivotal moment in their lives and careers. The exchange needed to go perfectly.