by Bruce Buff
“I only know what everyone else does. There is nothing more I can tell you.”
“Where are you keeping your real work records?”
“At HBC, of course.”
“Fortunately for your daughter—for now—we don’t have the time it would take to let a reoccurrence of leukemia run its course and ensure your cooperation in exchange for the experimental treatment it would require.”
“I will prove to you that I have not withheld anything of value,” Stephen asserted, thinking that perhaps just giving them the raw data translated into the symbolic code, without the means to decode it, would be enough to hold them at bay for a while.
“We don’t have time for more deceit.” Gesturing to the two men standing next to Stephen, Sarastro said, “Inject Dr. Bishop.”
The two men grabbed Stephen, and, while holding him down, injected him with a syringe of clear liquid.
“Don’t worry,” Sarastro said, noticeably more relaxed. “It’s only a solution to help you be more thoughtful and forthright, freeing you from whatever worries are impeding your normally sound and well-intentioned judgment. In a few minutes, you’ll be your old collaborative self and, if you’re lucky, we will not require any additional means to motivate you. Then, if I like what you have to say, you can assume a proper role within our organization. Or not,” Sarastro said with an accent on the last word that left no doubt that the latter would not lead to a good outcome for Stephen.
• • •
Dan pedaled furiously the last mile to reach the site where he thought Stephen was being held. He hadn’t heard or seen police vehicles headed toward there. With a grim realization, he realized that he’d probably have to deal with the situation himself, and without any weapons. The police had to be getting a flood of calls from frightened people all across the city, and his call would have to wait its turn.
• • •
The injection was just beginning to take effect when the driver of the panel truck burst into the room, saying his police headquarters contact said police were headed their way in response to a report of a truck carrying a large explosive device targeted for the tunnel. They had only a few minutes before they arrived.
Despite the forces about to descend on them, a still-calm Sarastro pointed to two of the men and said, “Move everything into the cars. Then set the truck on fire.” Walking slowly up the steps, he said, “Sergei and Elena, escort Dr. Bishop up the steps.”
As they approached, Stephen reached down and grabbed a piece of loose wood and, with all the strength he had left, slammed Sergei over the head, knocking him to the ground. Elena rushed to help Sergei, but he was unable to stand.
Stephen grabbed his phone and took off toward the far end of the basement, hoping to climb out of the opening he had seen earlier. His legs were rubbery, and his vision shifted as he half ran, half jogged, toward a shaft of dim light.
Behind him, he heard yells and stumbling footsteps approaching him.
Reaching the end of the basement, Stephen saw wood scaffolding bracing a rickety part of the wall. There was a small window near the top. He grabbed the windowsill and tried to pull himself up, his feet flailing against the concrete wall as he struggled. With the drug kicking in, his legs grew increasingly weak, and he fell to the ground, panting. He got up and again tried jumping while grabbing at the window. Falling once more, he hit the floor with a gasp and the room began to spin. As he landed, his phone fell out of his pocket.
At what sounded like the other end of the basement, he heard more loud voices racing his way. If he didn’t get out now, that’d be it. He had one chance left.
Looking at the unsteady wall and scaffolding, he threw his phone out the window and then began to climb up the wood bracing, trying to get high enough to slide out the opening. As he climbed, he became groggier. Near the top, he reached for the window, but he couldn’t quite grab it. He lost his balance, fell backward, and lunged at a piece of scaffolding. It came free. The scaffolding collapsed, as did the cinder blocks and bricks it had been supporting.
Stephen landed headfirst and hard on the concrete floor. The remnants of the wall landed on top of him, leaving only his head and right arm free of debris. His breath eased out of him as he scrawled in the dust with his right hand.
Stephen was dead when one of the men and Elena reached his body. They shined a flashlight on Stephen’s face, felt for a pulse, and knew he was gone. Sarastro screamed at them over the radio for their incompetence and told them to get out before he had them shot and left behind. In their haste to leave, they missed what Stephen had written in the dust.
• • •
Dan pulled up as two large sedans raced away, spinning wheels and kicking up a cloud of dirt. A fire burned in the panel truck—it had to be the one he’d seen earlier. Though he couldn’t see into the sedan, he thought, actually hoped, that Stephen was alive in one of the cars.
Looking at his cell phone tracker again, he saw that the phone he had given Stephen was still here. Either his abductors had left Stephen, or they had taken Stephen but left the phone behind. Neither possibility was good.
Dan ran around the building, calling out, “Stephen! Stephen, it’s Dan!” Reaching the back, he saw the collapsed basement retaining wall. He walked cautiously toward the ten-foot-wide jumble of dirt and bricks that sloped from outside the building down into the basement. Beyond the top of the pile, still outside the building, Dan saw Stephen’s cell phone on the ground and picked it up. It looked damaged. He peered down the debris into the basement and barely made out a head and arm sticking out from the rubble. Heart sinking, Dan jumped down. It was Stephen. He felt for a pulse. Finding none, he cradled Stephen’s head, and then let out an angry, bitter yell.
No one was safe. No one was spared, especially the good.
Sitting there, he held Stephen as though he could hang on to his warmth.
Soon he heard sirens approaching. Using his cell phone as a light source, he looked around quickly. Stephen’s finger was pointing at writing in the dust of the basement floor. He’d drawn a lowercase i, followed by a question mark, then two lines that almost formed the symbol for “less than”: i? <
Had Stephen left him one last message? Dan took a picture of it with his phone and then erased it with his sneaker. With both cell phones in his pocket, Dan jumped and pulled himself through an adjacent casement window at the top of a still-intact section of the basement wall, then wiped where his hands had touched.
After one last look back at the friend who had been with him at every important moment of his life, he turned and left. He walked the bicycle across the building’s lot, crossed the street, sat down out of sight of the arriving forces, and lowered his head into his hands.
From within his heart he heard the question Why?
It was a question that presumed there was something that could provide an answer. But answers could only come from a source that hadn’t provided any evidence of its existence. Still, Dan knew that, beaten down though he was, and stripped bare of the insulation of everyday life, the desire for an answer pervaded him.
Something had made Stephen think he had proof of God’s existence, that the universe ultimately made sense. That same something probably cost Stephen his life.
Dan would find whatever Stephen had found. He would help Nancy and Ava with their grief. He would avenge Stephen’s death. He would find a way to finish Stephen’s work. And finally, if he found anything like a God actually existed, Dan would demand an answer to the question of why the good, the innocent, and the weak suffer, while evil prospers. Why would a God be invisible and absent at the moments of people’s greatest need?
The flashing lights Dan saw approaching would be there in moments, and with them, officials who’d want answers to different questions which he wasn’t ready to provide. Dan walked his bicycle away from the area, mounted it, and started toward home. There, he�
��d await the anguished call from Nancy and pretend that he didn’t already know what he had seen firsthand. Otherwise, he’d have to explain to her and the police how he had found Stephen. He had to avoid scrutiny if he was going to keep his vows to Stephen and find out what had happened.
There was going to be hell to pay, and he was going to make sure someone did just that.
PART 3
Chapter 38
Dan took off his socks, put them inside his pants pocket, and walked up the front steps of his building. A half mile back, after wiping the bicycle for fingerprints, he had discarded it in a trash bin. A storm drain held his sneakers before their eventual journey downstream. He was getting rid of anything that could link him to the scene of Stephen’s death.
With heavy legs and a heavier heart, he entered his apartment, took off his clothes, and threw them in the washer.
After putting on his bathrobe, he looked out the window and across the river at the waning smoke and lingering glow that were all that was left from the diminishing flames.
If it hadn’t happened already, Nancy would soon receive the call that would suck out a large part of what had made her world joyful and real. Of course, she’d go on, especially with Ava to raise. But when you believe, as Nancy and Stephen had, that two could become one, it’s pretty hard to be a whole when part of it is taken away. What remains remembers what it had been.
Turning on the TV, Dan saw more news reports on the explosion. The cause was unknown and, though it had not yet been completely discounted, earlier fears of a terrorist attack appeared unfounded. The security measures put in place were expected to subside over the next day. The low levels of radiation, apparently from tritium, had dissipated and were not a threat. Loss of life couldn’t be verified until the fire had been put out and remains located. As of now, eight people were believed missing.
He turned off the TV and slammed down the remote. Yanking the vacuum out of the closet, in violent strokes he cleaned the area he had trod on since returning. Afterward he emptied the contents of the vacuum canister out of his living room window. He took off his bathrobe, placed it in the washing machine with his other clothes, and started it up. He sat down with just a towel wrapped around his waist and looked at the washer aimlessly. He realized that he was no more in control of his life than the clothes within the machine, tossed and tumbled from side to side.
After a few minutes, the resolutions he had made when he found Stephen intensified. Dan would find and deal with whoever had abducted Stephen. Dan finally had an absolute purpose.
He’d also be there for Nancy. For that, he’d better shower so he could be ready when the dreaded call inevitably came.
Too soon, his cell phone rang. He stepped out of the shower without toweling off and he answered, droplets falling off his body as energy drained out of him as well.
“Dan . . . Stephen’s . . . dead,” Nancy said haltingly through stifled sobs.
Though he already knew, hearing it spoken hit him anew. Even though he’d had time to think of what he’d say, all he could force out through his tightly strained throat was “How? How can that be?”
“Some sort of accident. The police will be here soon. Could you please come over? I know it’s late, but I can’t face this alone,” Nancy cried.
“I’ll be right there,” Dan answered. He tried to find words to comfort her, but couldn’t through his own grief.
In a quieter voice, Nancy said, “Thank you. I’m so lost. There’s more that I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“I’m leaving now,” Dan said.
What more there could be?
Chapter 39
DAY 6
WEDNESDAY, 1 A.M.
A line of police cars, lights flashing low, filled the street in front of the Bishops’ house.
As Dan walked with labored steps toward the front door, one of the police officers moved into his path. The officer started to speak, but Dan said, “I’m a friend of the family. Mrs. Bishop asked me to come here.”
“Who are you?” the officer asked.
“Dan Lawson. I’ve known Stephen Bishop for thirty years,” Dan replied, refusing to use the past tense.
“Come with me,” the officer said as he turned and walked up the front steps, Dan close behind. Entering the house, the officer motioned for Dan to stop as the officer headed into the study. After a moment, the officer returned, then led Dan in.
In the study, Nancy sat rigidly on the wingback chair next to the piano, drawn but composed. Several police officers of varying ranks, milled around. Dan felt the eyes of the police officers on him, probably wondering why Nancy had called him for comfort and aid instead of a girlfriend or a relative. He, too, had wondered until remembering that Stephen’s parents lived hours away, and that he was the person who had been closest to Stephen—at least for most of his life—and was one of the people to see him most recently. The last part would interest investigators.
Nancy stood up as Dan walked over to her. They hugged, though he knew there was nothing he could do that would provide her meaningful comfort or assuage his own grief. Releasing her, Dan said, “Nancy, I’m so sorry. I’ll do whatever I can for you and Ava.” He was also thinking about how he would begin the journey he was about to undertake: to find out and finish whatever Stephen had started, and to hold accountable those whose actions had led to Stephen’s death. For now, that would require keeping everything close to the vest, certainly not letting Nancy or anyone else know what Stephen had told him or what he had been doing to help him. No one could know that he had found Stephen’s body.
With a smile, taut as a thin steel cable holding a great weight, Nancy replied, “Thank you. I’m sure Stephen knows and appreciates that.”
Also present, not past, tense. But Nancy’s faith led her to believe that Stephen still existed and undoubtedly was in his God’s care. Putting aside his own sorrows, resentments, and questions, Dan briefly wished he could believe that himself, even if only for temporary comfort.
“Is Ava asleep? How is she taking it?” Dan asked.
“She’s at a sleepover at a friend’s house and doesn’t know yet. I’ve spoken to the parents, and I’ll get Ava early in the morning, before she hears the news from anyone else. I dread it. Stephen and Ava were so close.”
Emotion almost overcoming him, Dan breathed deeply, swallowed, and said, “Whatever you need, just ask.” Memories of Stephen buried under the rubble kept intruding on his thoughts, making it hard to concentrate.
“Being here now is a huge help,” Nancy said, motioning for him to sit on the piano bench, next to her chair. She looked at the lead investigator and said, in her proper manner, “Lieutenant Slawski, could you please repeat what you told me? I’d like Dan to hear it, and I’m afraid I haven’t been able to grasp all of it.”
Dan listened as the lieutenant told him what he already knew. Hearing about how the officers found Stephen alone, crumpled under debris, only made the hurt Dan was feeling more real. The officers explained that the situation would be suspicious under normal circumstances, because of the footprints surrounding Stephen’s body and the fact that the ground had been rubbed near Stephen’s right hand. Given the explosion at MIT and the phone call that led the police to the building and the burning truck, it was now being considered even more suspicious.
Ghostly pale, Nancy was frozen in position. Dan resisted the urge to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. Instead, he went to get her a glass of water.
The lieutenant asked Nancy if she felt up to answering some questions. Haltingly, she said, “Yes” and took a sip of the water.
A series of short questions followed. Nancy answered:
“I have no idea why Stephen was in that area. He had no interests there.”
“I last spoke to Stephen about an hour after the explosion. He called me from his MIT office and said he was okay and would be home soon. He
sounded upset.”
“His friend Viktor Weisman, director of the fusion center, might have been killed in the fire.”
The policemen straightened up when they heard Stephen had known Viktor. Dan, too, wanted to know more about the connection, though he had more reason, and perhaps means, to do so. Somewhere buried in his servers might be the answer.
“Mrs. Bishop, please tell us about your husband’s relationship with Dr. Weisman.”
“There’s not much to say. They met over a decade ago at an MIT golf outing and have been friends ever since. That poor man was a concentration camp survivor. Other than mutual respect, they had no professional relationship. Physics and biology rarely cross paths, especially genomics and fusion energy research.”
After taking time to read through his notes, the lieutenant said to Dan, “You mind if Sergeant Olsen asks you a few questions in the other room? We’d like to finish up for now and let Mrs. Bishop rest.”
Dan followed Sergeant Olsen into the kitchen, where Dan provided quick answers to rapid-fire questions.
“I’ve been friends with Stephen for over thirty years, and we just had a nice weekend on the Cape with his family. Everything was fine. He didn’t have enemies or problems with people.”
“I know very little about Stephen’s work, save for the fact that it involves genetics.”
“I had only met Viktor Weisman once, briefly, years ago.”
It makes no sense that Stephen was in that area, especially since he had just been in his MIT biology office.”
Stephen has no enemies.”
“I watched the fire across the river through my window and on TV. At one point, I walked across the street to the river and then partway over the bridge, but that was it.”
“I no longer work in the intelligence community. I am now an independent computer security consultant. No, that is not another name for a professional hacker.”
