“Maybe he thinks Emilio is at school while he sleeps?”
“Yeah, but even if he notices Emilio is missing, what’s he going to do? Call the police? Abe and I doubt that he would draw that kind of attention to himself.”
“Good point.” I thought about Arnaldo Soto—Dead Eyes. Soto would not appreciate Mateo calling in the police.
“Well, thank you for calling me. I was sort of out of it when Cushing stormed the cul-de-sac the other night.”
“Abe says the soldiers came back a few hours later, after I went home.”
I sighed. “Yeah, they did. I was so beat that I’d gone back to my house to rest. Figured it would be safe for a few hours. I figured wrong. After I took a nap, I got on my laptop. Cushing’s IT people were watching. As soon as I logged on, they knew I was there.”
“Gemma!”
“The important thing is that I got out of there. It won’t happen again. I won’t give her that kind of opportunity.”
His voice on the other end went silent.
“Honest, Zander. I’m okay. I’m safe where I’m hiding. I’ve had a chance to rest up and get my strength back.”
“Well, all right . . . I guess. What will you do next?”
“I’m keeping busy. The less you know, the better.”
I think my answer stung him, because he dropped into silence again.
“Zander?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Thank you for calling me. You’ll destroy the note, right? And keep the phone in a safe place?”
“Of course.”
“Well, goodbye, then.”
“Yeah, okay. Goodbye.”
Sigh.
Life is not much more than a series of goodbyes, is it?
***
I ate some lunch before tackling the problems before me. Gemma Keyes—her identity, credit cards, and every means of operating in the digital world—was, for all practical purposes, dead to me. And yet I had pressing needs that no amount of cash by itself could overcome.
Like a car.
Yes. Transportation was number one on my hit parade, followed close behind by a real credit card for other needs I could only acquire through online shopping.
As I pondered how to overcome my problems, I realized that “getting” a vehicle was merely the first step. “Keeping” a car entailed other logistics—like where I would park said vehicle. I sure couldn’t park it at the safe house or just out on the street! And once I had transportation, if I didn’t license it, the odds of being pulled over rose exponentially—particularly as I drove closer to wherever Cushing had Dr. Bickel stashed.
Dr. Bickel.
Where had Cushing secreted him? Was he languishing in a cell in D.C. or its surrounds? Was he being tortured somewhere on the 463,000-acre Eglin Air Force Base in Florida? Was she forcing him to work in a laboratory hidden within Area Fifty-Whatever deep in the Nevada desert?
He could be just about anywhere. The only clue to his location Dr. Bickel had provided was “military installation”—and the government had “military installations” all over the world.
The phrase “military installation” was not much help.
Regardless of the “where,” once the nanomites figured out where Cushing was holding my old friend, I would need a vehicle that could operate on the open road without suspicion—and that trick would require a lot of forethought and planning on my part.
I need to figure this out. How does an invisible woman purchase a vehicle for cash? Get it registered and licensed? Under a legit name? Other than her own, of course.
I worked late into the night and fell asleep on the couch considering such problems. I slept until midmorning the following day.
~~**~~
Chapter 6
Since I’d arrived at Dr. Bickel’s safe house, I’d been mulling over how to establish a new identity. After much thought, I decided on a course of action. The first step would be the most difficult and would hinge on the nanomites’ hacking abilities—and their level of cooperation.
I opened a browser window and navigated to Arizona’s Motor Vehicle Division—as good a starting point as any.
“Nano. I need to appropriate a new identity, so I want you to get into this system’s database and select the driving records of five women between the ages of, say, thirty and fifty. Doesn’t matter which women, so long as they hold licenses with no accidents or citations.
“I’ll need to see their records, including social security numbers. Oh. And cross reference their licenses with their credit reports. I’m looking for someone whose credit history is both unblemished and inactive.”
I was gratified when the mites launched into work mode, so I began searching Albuquerque real estate sites for houses recently placed on the market. I found one that had been listed last week about two miles east of Dr. Bickel’s safe house.
Close enough but far enough away.
I copied the address.
While I did that, the mites wormed their way into the Arizona MVD and produced five suitable Arizona licenses and credit reports. I looked them over, studied one Kathy Sawyer’s profile, and decided it might work. Then I did a lot of other browsing, trying to pull together the little threads of ideas that would get the new Kathy Sawyer functioning in Albuquerque.
First, I had to consider “Kathy Sawyer” to be a disposable persona. If—no, when—Cushing sniffed out Ms. Sawyer, her every action would be scrutinized and backtracked. For as long as I used Kathy Sawyer’s identity, I had to be careful that her activities did not point the way to me.
Next, Kathy needed a physical address, a place where she could receive mail—including packages. It could not be an address too close to the safe house.
I considered getting a mail box inside a UPS store because I could access a UPS mail box 24/7. Of course, the problem there was that you needed two forms of ID to get a mail box—and to get an ID you needed an address (among other things).
Can’t get one without the other. Can’t get the other without the one.
Difficult, much? Yeah. Good thing I had an ace up my sleeve.
Or a swarm of nanomites.
I did an online search for Kathy Sawyer in Tempe, Arizona. She showed up on Facebook but her profile was dated. Other than a mention at a high school reunion, her online presence was low.
Perfect.
I wrote down all of Kathy’s license info and kept at the other problems, figuring out workarounds.
Thinking, thinking, thinking.
I was surprised when I glanced at the clock on the laptop. Surprised and beat. I’d worked straight through the afternoon, evening, and into the night. I fell into bed and slept until late morning the following day.
***
The sun was obscured by cloud cover when I pulled myself out of bed. It was now early November and, while the days might warm up, the nights were downright nippy.
I opened the door to the furnace closet. The model inside wasn’t too much different from the old furnace in my house. I squinted at the instruction label on the furnace’s side and fumbled my way through lighting the pilot. Got it running. The odd smell a furnace makes the first time it is fired up for the season was comforting in its familiarity.
Late that afternoon, I slipped out the back door and walked to the nearest bus stop. I caught a ride headed east. I stood near the bus’s rear door well where I could jump out of the way if someone exited or got on, but riding the bus made me uneasy. It was way too simple for someone to move when or where I didn’t expect them to, to zig when I zagged.
Brrr! The weather had definitely turned chilly. Two more reasons for a car—ASAP.
As the bus ran east up Menaul, I ran over my mental checklist, what I needed to accomplish.
I had to stop and examine the odd sense of purpose and of, well, satisfaction, I guess, that I was feeling. The nanomites and I were working together a bit instead of fighting each other (go figure!), and the possibilities of what I could do—what we could
do—were growing on me. I guess that’s why I felt no anxiety about what I intended to do next.
The bus pulled over, and I got off not too far from an MVD Express.
They will be closing soon.
Yup. The sign on the door said they closed at 6 p.m. I waited until someone exited the building to slide inside. Maybe three customers were waiting in the rows of seats. I found a clock on the wall: 5:25. Thirty-five minutes to kill.
A fake ficus plant took up a corner of the room. I walked over and hunkered down next to it. The floor wasn’t too clean, but it wasn’t too bad, either.
Cleaner than the drug house’s floor had been. Just chilly.
Guess I was still pretty beat ’cause after a few minutes I nodded off. A soft chirp from the nanomites roused me. The waiting area was empty and the staff was locking up.
I wiped my face and got up off the floor. After another ten minutes, all the employees were gone and the place was locked up tight. I went through the doors into the staffing area and sat down at the first customer service terminal.
“Nano,” I whispered. “Log in to this system and bring up a driver’s license application.”
They logged me in as the last user, one Marcella Pruitt. I filled in the application using Kathy Sawyer’s social security number and the address I’d chosen—that of the newly listed house for sale. I entered Kathy’s date of birth and the height, weight, and eye color from her Arizona license. Acceptable proofs of New Mexico residency? I clicked on “Real Property Rental Agreement” and “Utility Bill.” The nanomites added Marcella’s verification code.
Everything was going great until I hit “Photo.”
Well, duh! Sorry, but I’m not at my most photogenic today.
“Nano. Um, appropriate an existing license photo in this system, one that is an approximate match to the age, height, weight, and eye color listed on this application.”
They went to work, and I waited.
A few minutes later, a photo appeared on the license form, and Kathy Sawyer became a plain, middle-aged woman with dark hair and dark, saggy eyes.
I shrugged. “Okay. Thanks.”
I completed the app and submitted it. The next screen came up with “Payment: $67/four-year license or $83/eight-year license.” I chose the eight-year option and “cash” for payment. I pulled a wad of money out of my pocket, all twenties.
Drat. I hadn’t thought about exact change—or where the money would go when I paid it.
I pulled open the drawer under Marcella’s computer, but it was filled with the regular sort of office supplies. I looked around at the signage in the lobby.
On the end, I spied a sign that read, “Pay Here.”
“Ah!” I got up and went over to the station. It had a register of sorts, but the drawer was open and empty.
Bad news for thieves.
Worse news for me.
I went back to Marcella’s terminal and blew out a sigh of frustration. I sat down to think—and then it hit me.
Wait! I’m going about this all wrong, trying to make the numbers add up when what I should do is delete the equation.
“Nano. Get into this system and trigger the correct payment for this license then erase the payment transaction record. Erase the log entry that created this license, too, while retaining the license itself.”
Seconds later the screen read, “Payment Received,” and I pressed “print” for the temporary card. The real license would arrive at the address I’d listed, usually within seven to ten days. However, according to the MVD Express website, it could take up to forty days to arrive.
The thought of trotting to the mail box at that address every day for the next forty days drew a growl of frustration from me. “Nano. I need you to check the New Mexico MVD every day and monitor the progress of this license. Alert me when it goes out in the mail.”
I wasn’t convinced that they had heard me or would do as I directed. “Nano. Can you do that? Give me a sign that you will do that.”
Their overall background noise picked up and words formed on the computer screen in front of me.
ALERT YOU YES
“Great. Thanks.”
I logged Marcella Pruitt out, wiped down the keyboard, and hoped nothing I’d done would come back to bite her. I stuffed the temp license into the back pocket of my jeans and headed to the front door.
“Nano. Unlock this door without tripping the alarm. Relock it after we’re out.”
They were at it before I finished speaking.
It was a hike to get home, a couple of miles, anyway. As I wandered along, I ticked off the next steps in my mind, and picked up my pace.
Once I was home, I began searching mail box services nearby and selected a likely candidate—the UPS Store on San Mateo. It was in the same general area of Albuquerque as Dr. Bickel’s safe house, but not too close.
***
Late the following afternoon, I caught a bus down Candelaria to San Mateo and walked the rest of the way to the UPS Store. The store closed at 6 p.m., and I intended to be inside before they locked up.
In the same way that the mites had logged me into the MVD Express system, they logged me into the UPS system—and opened any locked door I requested. I emerged from the store fifteen minutes later with a mail box key and a key to the mail room. I tried the key to the mail room, checked out my box, pocketed both keys, and headed home.
As I trotted along, a satisfied little ditty played in my head. Now I can make some progress. Some real progress.
But while I walked, uneasiness flickered on the edge of my consciousness, a disquieting sense that I was missing something. No, that wasn’t quite it—more that I was going about everything the wrong way . . . the long way? Like when I needed to pay for my driver’s license and realized that I was hindered by my “old” ways of thinking.
Yeah, I’m making progress, but . . . have I made things unnecessarily complex by looking at problems from a, well, strictly human perspective?
Should I embrace a new paradigm? If so, what was it? What did it entail?
I needed to give this uncomfortable insight more thought.
***
It was getting late, but I was determined not to stop while I was on a roll. I made coffee and got to work. I laid my temporary driver’s license on the table and created an email account for Kathy Sawyer.
Opened a browser window to Capital One.
The website asked, What’s in your wallet?
I snickered. Wouldn’t you be surprised?
Determined to break out of “old” and limiting patterns of thinking, I skipped over the many convoluted steps I’d taken the last couple of days.
Use the mites, Luke.
“Nano. I need a credit card in Kathy Sawyer’s name. Hack in and make that happen. Use my UPS mail box for the address.”
I thought I’d see them filling out an online application (again, the limitations of my own thinking), but I guess they didn’t need to. They must have hacked the approval process, too, because minutes later they wrote on the screen,
EXPECT YOUR
NEW CAPITAL ONE
CASHBACK VISA CARD
WITHIN SEVEN DAYS
THANK YOU
FOR CHOOSING
CAPITAL ONE
I cracked up.
I laughed—and laughed harder.
It felt good, you know? Good to find something humorous about my crazy life.
I hadn’t laughed in what seemed like a very long time.
I wiped my eyes. “Super, Nano. Thank you.”
I giggled. “Super Nano? Yeah, right.”
Maybe not as funny as that.
The nanomites were overcoming insurmountable problems left and right—and I was riding a steep learning curve. Destination? Faster, easier ways to get things done.
I thought about my visit to DCC and shook my head over the roundabout, confabulated steps I’d taken to acquire keys to the church.
Keys? Apparently, I didn’t need keys any l
onger.
All righty! Now, let’s get me a checking account. I did need a way to pay the credit card bill, after all.
I brought up the Wells Fargo website next—and ran into a red flag.
Hmmm. Wells Fargo has branches all over.
“Nano, jump into Wells Fargo. Has Kathy Sawyer from Arizona ever had an account with them?”
A few minutes later I had my answer.
NO
I hesitated. “So, where does she bank?”
BANK OF AMERICA
I exhaled. “Thank you. Nano, please set up a Wells Fargo checking account for me—for Kathy Sawyer.”
Since I had a social security number, driver’s license, and a physical address, they accomplished their task in quick order—until they hit the signature card.
SIGNATURE CARD
REQUIRED
“Um, can you like . . . fake a signature? Maybe use the one from my driver’s license and, um, log the card into the system?”
YES
Moments later the image of a signed signature card appeared on screen.
“Wow.” I shook my head. “I’ll say it backward: WOW!”
Such good little forgers! You’ve earned yourselves a treat.
*snicker*
INITIAL DEPOSIT
REQUIRED
Aaaaand thud.
I thrummed my fingers on the laptop’s edge. “How to . . . What about . . . hmmm. Could you . . .”
I sighed. The account only required a $50 initial deposit. I had thousands! But how could I put some cash into my account before I had an ATM card?
I was at a loss.
GEMMA KEYES
“Uh, yeah?”
WE HAVE APPROPRIATED
THE REQUIRED
MINIMUM AMOUNT
AND DEPOSITED FUNDS
TO YOUR ACCOUNT
“What? You have? Uh, won’t the money be missed?”
WE HAVE INSERTED CODE
TO HIDE THE MISSING AMOUNT
IT WILL BE TRANSFERRED
OUT OF YOUR ACCOUNT AND
RETURNED TO ITS RIGHTFUL
ACCOUNT WHEN YOU MAKE
A DEPOSIT USING YOUR
ATM CARD
“So, you ‘borrowed’ some money, put it in my account, and will replace it when I have funds to cover it?”
Stealth Power Page 6
