by Steven James
I scrolled to the date of the next fire. “And here, on June 16, Rene Gonzalez died at approximately 11:00 p.m., two hours before a fire was suppressed on the same street. And . . .” I surfed to another date. “Here we have a Jane Doe on August 1 at 1:00 a.m., ninety minutes before the fire—”
“You memorized the dates, times, and locations for all the fires?”
“It’s easier that way, then I don’t have to keep looking things up. So, see?” I kept scrolling. “Here’s a suicide, within three blocks of the fire.”
Now that I knew what I was looking for, it went faster, so I whipped through the remaining obituary pages, summarizing as I went. “Another stroke . . . two suicides . . . and two more unidentified deaths.” I finished scrolling through the dates of the fires and then said, “It doesn’t happen at every fire, but there are enough incidents to establish a high correlation.”
Lien-hua’s voice fell into a soft lament and she said the words I was thinking, the words I hoped couldn’t possibly be true: “They were testing the device on the homeless population.”
“Yes, I think they were.”
94
I hated to admit it, but all the evidence so far told me we were right. “So, use the device on someone and either induce a stroke or give him severe enough brain damage to cause him to consider suicide.”
“Probably to the frontal cortex,” she mused. “Controls inhibitions, language production, judgment. Destroy that and we’re little more than animals.”
“And remember? Hunter chose sites near trolley stops so that he could get away. So if Drake’s men were testing the device nearby, that would explain why Graysmith and Dunn noticed the high rate of suspicious deaths among the homeless near trolley tracks.”
“Don’t murder someone,” Lien-hua whispered. “Let him die from natural causes. Think about San Diego, Pat: a biotech hub with hundreds of thousands of undocumented immigrants. What better city to test this in? Here you have all the scientists you need, all the technology and biotech resources you need—”
“And all the test subjects,” I added. “People who would never be missed: immigrants, transients, the homeless.” It was terrible to say, but I knew it was true. “The system doesn’t care if a few vagrants or illegal aliens end up dead. The nameless don’t make the news. To the system, they don’t exist.”
“And with the high occurrence of mental illness in the homeless population, who would notice if the test only caused slight brain damage?” She paused. “This device would be the perfect weapon for an assassin.”
“Wait,” I said, staring at the deadly device laying right beside us. “Think big here, Lien-hua. We can already use satellite-based lasers for tracking and targeting, and soon we’ll be able to do retinal scans from our defense satellites. If the government were able to install this technology on the next generation of satellites they’d have the ability to track people either through global video or by neural synapse patterns, and then, any time they wanted, give a person permanent brain damage or a stroke and leave no trace evidence behind. No bullets, no DNA, no fingerprints, no physical evidence of any kind left at the scene of the crime. No murder. No crime. The person just died of—”
“Natural causes.”
“Yes.”
A long silence. Then Lien-hua said, “If what we’re talking about is actually possible, it could tip the balance of world power. Nearly all of our current security measures would be useless. Bodyguards, locks, security systems, bulletproof glass, body armor, Kevlar vests, all worthless. A government could assassinate anyone, at any time, for any reason, and never be implicated.”
We were both silent again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to explore the possibilities any further. It seemed like the more I did, the more disturbing the implications became.
“But Pat, I’m still wondering . . . why do you think Shade wanted Building B-14 burned down? Why not just steal the device?”
“The research. The government could just make another device. The files all went up in smoke. That’s why I wanted Dr. Osbourne and the other researchers in protective custody. Now that the files and the device are gone, I figured Shade might go after the researchers next.”
We both reflected on everything for a few moments, and then she said, “But why the other fires? What’s the connection?”
Truthfully, even with all the puzzle pieces I’d been able to slide together so far, I couldn’t see a reason for the previous fires. “I don’t know. It seems like it would draw more attention to the scene than just letting the victim die. It doesn’t make sense. That part’s still a mystery to me.”
We discussed different possibilities, but neither of us could untangle any more threads of the case with the facts at hand. There was a lot to process, a lot to think through. And even though much of what Lien-hua and I had discussed was only a working hypothesis, I felt like we were on the right track. After all, John Doe’s death fit the pattern: brain damage, suicide, then a fire.
I thought once again of Dupin and the orangutan from Poe’s story. I didn’t remember the French saying Tessa had quoted, but I did remember the translation: ignoring what is and explaining what is not. We needed to explain what did happen, however impossible it might seem. And the working theory we were exploring did just that.
Lien-hua stood. “I need to let all this sink in. I’ll see you in a bit. I’m going to take a shower, get cleaned up.”
As she stepped into the bathroom, I started wondering once again how Shade and Melice found out the device would be at police headquarters. Using CIFER to mask the origin of my call, and using my computer’s internal microphone, I phoned Angela Knight. “Can you check to see if anyone has accessed the satellite imagery of the showdown with Hunter?” I said. “Using infrared thermal imaging it might have been possible to view Hunter stashing the device. I’ll email you the exact street location.”
“I’ll check,” she replied. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” While I waited for her reply, I contacted Ralph. His phone was off, but I left him a brief message summarizing what Lien-hua and I had discussed. Then I called Graysmith: still no word on Melice, although they did find a car he’d stolen and the remnants of my little creation in an auto body shop on India Street. I tried Tessa’s number again, no answer. I left another message.
By the time I was done, Angela had sent me an email explaining that Terry Manoji was the only one who’d logged in to the network. “He must have had the same idea you did, Pat,” she wrote.
Another dead end. I let out a sigh.
Both Lien-hua and I had been going almost nonstop since yesterday morning, and I could feel the stress and fatigue catching up with me, so I went to the suite’s other bathroom for a shower of my own, and it gave me a chance to think things through.
Lien-hua was safe, Tessa was safe, and, although Shade and Me-lice were still out there, the FBI and SDPD were on Melice’s tail, Osbourne was on his way to protective custody, and soon Ralph would be on his way to talk to Victor Drake.
For the moment at least, it seemed like Lien-hua and I had stepped into the eye of the hurricane. All around us, the winds were swirling, but we’d found a brief pocket of calm air. Maybe it was just the calm before the storm.
About fifteen minutes later, Lien-hua and I found ourselves in the suite’s living room. Showered. Refreshed. Beginning to relax.
I’d put on my typical jeans and a T-shirt, she was wearing jeans and a pile pullover. “So Pat,” she said, taking a seat in the recliner. “I’m impressed with your work on this. Very thorough. Very professional.”
“You too. Very professional. By the way, how’s your leg?”
“Good. Your arm, where the guy bit you?”
“Good. Your neck?”
“My neck is good too,” she said.
“That’s good.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad we’re both good,” I said.
“Right.”
“Good.”
Bri
lliant, Pat. You are one stunning conversationalist.
The moment tumbled into silence, the kind of silence that asks you to turn a corner in the conversation. “So,” I said. “I guess Ralph will be calling soon.”
“Yes.”
“And until then it looks like we have a little time to . . .”
“Time to what?”
“Ourselves.” I could hardly believe I’d said it, hardly believe I’d let it slip out, but I had, and in the moment it felt right and I didn’t regret it.
Just the two of us.
“I think I’d like some fresh air,” she said, rising from the chair to open the sliding door to the veranda.
“I’ll get it.” I walked past her, pushed the glass door open, and let in the cool San Diego night.
I heard her voice behind me. “Wow. Thanks, Pat. I don’t think I could have managed that on my own.”
I turned around in time to see her untie her ponytail and shake her hair free. It fell like an inviting waterfall across her shoulders. “No problem.” A touch of her perfume curled around me. I motioned toward the open door. “Do you want the curtains open too?”
She looked like she was about to answer, but then curled her hand into a loose fist and nodded it at me.
“Sign language?”
She nodded with her hand again.
“And that means ‘yes’?”
One more nod with her closed fist. I pulled back the curtains.
Though it was February, the breeze drifting past me tasted like a sweet summer dream. I signed “yes” back to her. “Teach me some more signs. I think it’d be good to know them.”
“It takes a while to learn.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Lien-hua. I’m sure you’re a very good teacher.” I walked over and sat on the edge of the couch. “At least teach me the alphabet. Maybe I could fingerspell words and communicate with people who’re hearing impaired. If I ever needed to.”
She glanced through the open doors toward the sea, then back to me. “It’s just as hard as learning any foreign language.”
“Tessa’s good at foreign languages. She knows Latin. She’s learning French. Maybe it runs in the family.”
That elicited a slight grin. “She’s your stepdaughter, Pat.”
“Oh yeah. I guess you got me there. So then, how’s this?” I squiggled my fingers rapidly in the air, making up my own indecipherable language.
“Not so good.”
“See?” I said. “I need help.”
“Funny. Margaret told me that exact same thing just last week.”
“Now that, I believe.”
At last Lien-hua sighed and sat down on the other end of the couch. “OK, Pat, watch. ‘A’ is like this.” She slowly curled her fingers to form the sign language letter for A.
I imitated her gesture.
“Then B.”
Again I did as she did.
“C.”
I repeated “C.”
Then she showed me D, and then E, and then on through the rest, each time waiting just long enough for me to repeat the sign. After we’d gone through the entire alphabet she said, “OK, now you try. See how many you can remember.”
I made it to Q before stumbling.
She reviewed the alphabet for me, but this time I only made it to M.
“See? I told you it wasn’t easy.”
“Work with me. I’m a willing student.”
She held me with a gentle gaze. “The best way to learn is to close your eyes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Go ahead.”
I closed my eyes and waited for her to tell me to begin. I couldn’t quite understand how this would help, but as I was puzzling over it, I heard the soft shuffle of movement as she slid closer to me on the couch.
And then, I felt her warm hand on mine. Her fingers gently, carefully shaping mine to form the next letter. “N,” she said, and then the next: “O . . . P . . .” One letter at a time, her fingers guided mine through the remainder of the alphabet.
“Let’s start over at the beginning,” I said, my eyes still closed. “I’m not sure I’ve quite got hold of it yet.”
Without a word, Lien-hua took my fingers slowly through the entire alphabet. Every letter she formed made the rest of the world retreat farther and farther away. And every time our fingers flexed and curled together, my heart raced faster. And when we were finished, I opened my eyes.
“Close them again,” she said softly.
I didn’t want to be disagreeable, so I did as I was told.
With my eyes closed, my other senses seemed more acute. I could hear the soft waves bumping against the shore five stories below us, and the tender rustling of palm branches in the breeze. All around me, I smelled San Diego’s ever-present scent of spring swirling, coloring, covering the night. And of course, with my sense of touch, I could feel Lien-hua’s knowledgeable fingers guiding, teaching mine.
After we’d finished the alphabet, she said, “Keep them closed.” She made me wave my hand. “This is ‘hello.’”
“That’s an easy one.” I waved to her.
“That was good.” I heard a smile pass through her words. “I hope you can remember it.”
“Might be tough. I’ll do my best.”
“And this is ‘How are you?’” I felt her fingers, full of confidence, full of grace, glide across mine. I repeated the words as I did the gesture by myself.
“This is ‘please.’” She led me through the sign. I repeated it, and then she paused for a long moment, her hand resting on mine. I heard her soft breath beside me in the night, and I caught the scent of her shampoo, herbal and rich with the smell of meadowed flowers. I could almost sense the beat of her heart, rising through the dark expanse of my closed eyes. “This,” she said, “is the sign for ‘come closer.’” Her voice had fallen to a whisper.
“Come closer,” I said, I signed. Lien-hua’s hand remained on mine. A touch of discreet wind whispered against my cheek and the anxious trembling of my heart sent chills riding across my back.
“And this,” she said, “is ‘I’m here for you.’” She let her fingers teach mine.
“I’m here for you,” I said with my words and my fingers.
She didn’t take her hand away from mine at all anymore. “I need you,” she said, and she took her time teaching me the sign.
“I need you,” I repeated with my mouth, with my hand.
Her fingers curled lightly around mine, didn’t let go, although now she’d stopped teaching me sign language. She placed her other hand gently against my closed eyes. “Don’t open them,” she said. “Not yet.” The feelings for her that I’d been trying to quiet for months rose, climbed through time, and became a restless melody drawing me deeper and deeper into the moment.
“Monday night, after I brought Tessa back to the hotel and I saw you in the hall . . .” Her voice was a cool caress that calmed me and thrilled me. One of her hands on my hand, the other across my eyes. “That’s what I wanted to tell you, Pat, but I couldn’t find the words. I wanted to tell you: ‘I need you.’”
My heart was on fire. The world became a sprinkle of joy and wonder and promises as new as dawn. “I need you,” I whispered the words, and then added two more: “Come closer.”
I said the words and I signed them. “Come closer.” I repeated them again.
And again.
Until she did.
And that’s when I heard the knock at the door.
Victor Drake had just finished printing out the boarding pass for his flight to the Philippines and was busy shredding papers when the three men arrived at his home. Victor hated the word henchmen. He hated the idea of using henchmen. And even more, he hated giving money to his henchmen. But that was exactly what he was about to do.
He saw their cars pass across the video monitor of the surveillance cameras at the front gate, then he headed downstairs to usher his three henchmen into his home.
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A m
oment ago, when we heard the knock, both Lien-hua and I had leapt off the couch, pulled our weapons, and approached the door to the hallway.
Now, we covered both sides of the door. I silently counted to three with my fingers, then I threw the door open, grabbed the person standing outside it, pulled him into the room, and had him on the ground and restrained before the door even banged into the wall.
It was the man from the front desk. In his hand, he held a manila envelope. Lien-hua scanned the hallway and then, finding it empty, quickly closed the door.
“Hey!” the guy cried. “It’s just me. It’s just me.”
I eased my grip, holstered my SIG, saw Lien-hua do the same. “Who’s the envelope from?”
“I don’t know. Some homeless guy brought it in, told me someone gave him fifty bucks to deliver it to me. That’s it. That’s all I know. Now, please.”
I took the envelope from him and then I stood back. “Did he tell you the room? Did he tell you which room to deliver it to?”
The man from the front desk climbed to his feet, shaking his head. “No. Just said the Asian lady and the guy who needed a shave. That’s it. I swear.”
My name had been printed on the front of the envelope. “All right.” I dug a few bills out of my pocket and handed them to him. “We’d rather not be disturbed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he mumbled as he passed back through the door and walked away rubbing his wrist.
I closed, then dead-bolted the door. “Someone knows we’re here, Lien-hua, but it doesn’t look like they know which room.”
“Shade.”
I nodded. “Probably. He may have followed the doorman; let’s be ready either way.”
She eyed the envelope. “Do you think you should open it?”
“No, but I don’t always do what I should.” Carefully, I took it into the bathroom and held it over the sink just in case there was powder or poison inside. But it felt like only a few slips of paper.
I unclasped the metal brad, cupped the envelope open, and one piece of paper and a photo of the shattered tank in the warehouse slid out. The piece of paper read, “You missed something, Dr. Bowers.” It was signed, “Shade.” The handwriting appeared to be the same script as the words on the warehouse wall.
