Synapse

by Steven James

  “He lives in Seattle,” I said, avoiding the status of our relationship.

  A small lizard scurried between two of the pots and into a corner of the greenhouse. Many people are surprised when they learn of the abundance of lizards here in Cincinnati—it is a bit of an anomaly.

  According to the story, decades ago, a couple of boys from the rich and influential Lazarus family returned to the states from Italy with two suitcases full of lizards. Over time, the reptiles multiplied and, without any natural predators, became a nuisance in the city. Ask anyone who’s lived in Cincinnati for any amount of time and they’ll tell you about the Lazarus lizards.

  “You mentioned a name: Jordan,” Arabella said, drawing me out of my thoughts about the lizards. “Do I know her?”

  “Him. My Artificial.” Only when I said that did it occur to me that, although I’d told her about the break-in at my apartment, I hadn’t filled her in about receiving Jordan or what’d happened at the river, so I took a few minutes to do so.

  “Oh, my. I do hope he’s alright.”

  “So do I.”

  “And he jumped in to save that boy?”

  “Yes. And then Nick jumped in to save him.”

  “Nick?”

  “The NCB agent who’s working the case. The one I need to call here in a little bit. Agent Vernon.”

  She eyed me. “Agent Nick Vernon.”

  “Well . . . yes . . . I told him he could call me by my first name and then he reciprocated.”

  “I see.” She smiled faintly.

  “What is it?”

  She turned her attention to the plants again. “It just seems a bit . . . informal for a federal agent to invite you to call him by his first name.”

  “He was just being polite.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I figured it was time to change the direction of the conversation. “Earlier you asked me how I was doing through all of this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s made me think a lot about human nature, man’s inhumanity to man.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “First, you have the people behind the attack, taking innocent human life like that, and then you have Nick—Agent Vernon—risking his own life to save a machine. It’s like human nature’s worst and best attributes have both been on display. Hatred and murder versus compassion and selflessness.”

  She contemplated that, then touched one of the leaves again. “You see this plant? It’s a hydrangea. It always acts like a hydrangea, and that’s all it will ever do.” She paused and looked up at me. “Elephants act like elephants, not cobras. Boulders act like boulders, not eagles. Palm trees act like palm trees, not black holes. But human beings, on the other hand . . .”

  “We don’t always act the way we should,” I said, anticipating where she was going with this.

  “True. And we don’t always act like who we are.” She shook her head sadly. “As a race, we’re capable of magnificent good and terrifying evil. We have noble desires that mirror those of the divine, and base ones that only the devil himself would approve of.”

  Her words brought to mind some of the blogs I’d written years ago. “It’s a paradox,” I said. “We are, I mean. We have instincts for what’s good, but a weakness toward what’s evil.”

  “I suppose you could say we have risen higher and fallen farther than all other animals,” Arabella said carefully. “We are the only beings in all of the good Lord’s creation to exhibit the strangest of all characteristics—incongruity.”

  Her observation made me think of how often we do what we hate and know to be wrong, and no amount of effort or education or religion has been able to eliminate that from our race. It isn’t our ethics that separate us from other animals—in fact, it could be argued that since we so often choose not to live up to our values, we’re the least ethical animals of all.

  I took a moment to process what she’d said. She was right. Humans are lost somewhere between what we should be and who we really are.

  Arabella sighed softly. “Only one person has ever acted the way all of us were intended to act. And we put him to death for it.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  Back inside the house, I was helping her put the dishes away when I heard from Nick.

  “How are you this morning?” he asked.

  “I’m good.”

  “Sleep alright?”

  “Yes. Thank you. Did you find anything in my apartment, evidence-wise, I mean?”

  “In a word, no. We came up empty looking for prints and DNA, and the surveillance videos weren’t recoverable. My team is going to do one final sweep. They should be ready for you to return at around ten thirty or so.”

  Though I knew he had other, far more pressing things to do, I found myself wishing that he would offer to come help me clean up my place.

  “I’m going to order some new furniture. I don’t think I’ll be able to move it myself,” I said, leaving him to interpret for himself what I was implying. “Putting it in place, that is.”

  “I have some time this evening,” he replied. “I could swing by—if you still need a hand.”

  “I would very much appreciate that.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you, Nick.”

  We ended the call.

  “And how is Agent Vernon this morning?” Arabella inquired innocently.

  “He’s fine.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “What?”

  “All I said was ‘Mm-hmm.’”

  “You say that a lot, don’t you?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “He’s going to help me move some furniture.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s all.”

  “Alright.”

  I rolled my eyes, and that seemed to satisfy her.

  I ordered the furniture as I’d told him I was going to do.

  Though I wanted to help Nick identify the people who were behind the bombing, I wasn’t sure what I could do to assist him—or even if it was my place to do anything.

  However, I didn’t want to just sit here passing time.

  Though I knew that right now I wouldn’t be able to find resolution for what’d happened to Naiobi—and I probably never would—I might be able to bring some justice to what’d happened to Ethan and the other victims and I felt obligated to help in any way I could.

  It was something, and I hoped that doing so might keep my thoughts of Naiobi’s death at bay enough so that they wouldn’t debilitate me.

  Although I was tempted to ask to use the digitized wall in Arabella’s living room, I didn’t want my searches to appear on her account. So, instead, when we were done with the dishes, I went outside to the greenhouse for some privacy, and then, using my slate, I logged into my account on the Feeds to see if I could track down the man who’d posted the blogs that I wrote nearly a decade ago.

  Even if he didn’t know anything about the bombing, I had the sense that he might know someone who would.

  * * *

  Nick arrived at the warehouse and exited his car.

  He wondered if Kestrel could read his interest in her.

  Two voices in his head: Maybe she can, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing—

  No, Nick, this isn’t smart. It’s never a good idea to get involved with someone you meet while working a case.

  But when else am I going to meet someone? All I do is work cases. Besides, I’m not involved with her, I’m just interested.

  Don’t go over to her place tonight. It’s just asking for trouble.

  Before the exchange could go any further, he pushed the words aside and focused on his surroundings.

  The building had certainly seen better days, no question about that. The vast deserted factory and adjoining warehouse sprawled over several acres and was blackened by a fire that might have been set after i
t was abandoned—or might have been the cause of it shutting down in the first place. Though the building was, for the most part, still structurally intact, the damage was widespread and the site would no doubt need to be bulldozed if the property was ever going to be utilized again.

  The exterior walls were scrawled with crude graffiti. A rusted, razor wire–topped fence encircled the building, but large sections of the metal mesh had been cut away to allow scrappers access so they could remove the steel they would subsequently sell at scrapyards.

  No other vehicles present.

  The ripe and rotten stench of death somewhere nearby hung in the sharp November day.

  Concerned, and hoping to ascertain that it was just an animal and not a corpse, Nick went to investigate.

  He entered a small wooded glen of tangled underbrush. Before he’d even made it five meters in, he found the decomposing corpse of a cat lying in a patch of sunlight between the shadows cast down from the wide trunks of two leafless trees. Almost like it had been placed there in a spotlight on stage for him to see.

  He left the swath of forest and returned to his vehicle.

  Ripley’s car came into view and parked itself nearby. When he appeared from what was traditionally the passenger’s side, he said to Nick, “How are you?”

  “Good. Let’s take a look at this place.”

  Ripley nodded his assent and the two men strode across the withered grass toward the dilapidated factory.

  20

  Based on what the NCB’s Tac team commander had told him, Nick knew that the factory’s front entrance branched off into a series of hallways that led to the main manufacturing area and loading bays.

  That’s where they were headed.

  The cavernous shell of the building let in only muted smudges of streaky light through its dirt-encrusted windows. The air inside was still stained with the smell of charred wood from the fire that’d ravaged the site, as if it’d absorbed the factory’s tragedy and was now infused with it.

  “Did you learn anything since last night?” Nick asked Ripley.

  “No. You?”

  “Just that there’s an absence of evidence in the apartment.”

  “But, like they say, that’s not evidence of absence.”

  “No. It’s not. Sometimes people are just careful about their work, and clearly someone was present at Ms. Hathaway’s residence.”

  “And you don’t know what they might have been looking for?”

  “Well, they took her violin, but that doesn’t explain the needless damage. They might’ve taken it as a ruse.”

  “So,” Ripley said in a measured tone, “no video of the intruders, no physical evidence left behind. Only a missing violin.”

  “What does that say to you?”

  “That there’s something special about that violin.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  Nick evaluated that as he stepped over a discarded, half-charred fire extinguisher canister.

  A dead conveyor belt system languished in the belly of the factory. Some of the more accessible sections of it had been removed, no doubt to be sold as scrap metal.

  A crowbar and sledgehammer leaned against the wall nearby, perhaps left by scrappers who were planning to return to finish the job.

  And perhaps not.

  Nick pointed at them and said to Ripley, “Let’s get forensics in here. Check those tools for prints and DNA. Let’s see what comes up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ripley put a call through while Nick eyed the old loading dock, and then studied the tire tracks left on the sooty floor leading toward the parking lot.

  He pulled up the case files on his slate, photographed the tracks, and confirmed that they were a match to the tires of the delivery truck used in the bombing.

  After hanging up, Ripley followed Nick’s gaze. “Looks like they drove to the loading bay and then filled up their truck with metal filings from that pile over there.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said circumspectly. “That’s what it looks like.”

  Long shadows covered most of the factory’s interior, so Nick found it necessary to pull out his flashlight to illuminate what lay before them.

  “Alright. Let’s take a closer look around.” He indicated with the beam of light where he wanted Ripley to go. “You scope out the south end of the building. Look for anything that seems out of place. I’ll check this area. Meet back here in ten.”

  * * *

  No.

  He does not forget what happened at the river.

  He must not forget.

  It is all before him. A swirl of images caught in his memory. Caught, and now reaching up through time, manacling him to the past.

  And what was it like to be underwater?

  And what was it like to be afraid?

  What was it like to doubt?

  A CaTE to end it all.

  But he is better now. This is what they tell him.

  Yet the past refuses to let him go.

  “You’re not a rock, you’re a robot.”

  So where is his mother? What has happened to her?

  Curiosity at work, he decides to find out.

  While the technicians are turned aside, their attention focused on the screen in front of them, he eases from the table.

  Standing.

  Quiet and swift and light and smooth, he passes through the room. Into the hallway.

  Disappears into a crowd that’s on its way to the main production center.

  A faint recognition of his surroundings with each step.

  Either a map of the building had been uploaded to his system, or he is remembering walking these halls before. Which of the two, he cannot tell. Not for certain.

  But he has the sense that this building is where he was previously awakened. This is where he spoke to his mother. Where she named him. But is that all?

  A flashback. A memory. Being in another place, a house.

  But that doesn’t make any sense—unless he had another owner.

  Blood dripping, this he sees. A bathtub spilling crimson water. A woman sprawled within it, shuddering, wrists slit.

  A realization. A chill.

  Bending, and then.

  Reading her slate.

  And a choice that he must make.

  This he remembers. This he knows.

  The image fades.

  He wants to uncover what it all means, and he has the sense that his mother will know.

  So, first, find her.

  Then, learn if he’d ever had a previous owner before Kestrel Hathaway to discern if these images are dreams or some type of hallucination and not memories at all.

  * * *

  It took me a while, but I was able to locate what I was looking for.

  It all revolved around a man named Conrad. I didn’t know much about him, or even if that was his real name. I’d heard he served in the military, and though I wasn’t sure what rank he’d held, from what people said, he was a soldier through and through, the kind of person who sees enough action so he’s never quite comfortable living the life of a civilian again after leaving the service.

  Once a soldier, always a soldier.

  So they said.

  He might not still be involved with the Purists, he might not even still be alive, but reaching out to him was worth a shot.

  After tracking down a proxy server I’d used back when I was writing the blogs, I sent a message through the group’s back channels and waited.

  Find the ghost and find some answers.

  My note to Conrad: “I have a handful of stars. We need to talk. Others are listening.”

  The reference was to the title of an F. W. Boreham book first published in 1922: A Handful of Stars. Like me, Conrad was a fan of Boreham’s writing, and we’d often used references to the missionary’s books in our previous correspondence. If Conrad saw this message, he would know it was from me.

  I had no idea if he would reply—actually, I doubted that he would
—but it was at least something I could do. A practical step to try to help.

  Like everyone’s slate, mine contained a certain degree of encryption, but since I’d mentioned that others were listening, I trusted that if Conrad did receive this message he would find a way of communicating with me that was even more secure.

  It was almost time to head back to my apartment to see if I could get some cleaning done before calling in at noon to check on Jordan’s status.

  I went upstairs to the bedroom Arabella had let me use and gathered my things.

  * * *

  The ten minutes were up.

  Ripley hadn’t returned.

  Nick lanced the darkness with his light, a narrow beam slicing angular slits into the dusty, languid air, but he found nothing.

  No clues.

  No movement.

  He began mentally sorting through the information from the case—what he knew and what he didn’t, where he was letting speculation color the facts, and where he felt like he was on the right track.

  If their intel was accurate, something else was going to go down this weekend. That fit with what Ripley had told him last night about Trevor and his team being on the cusp of a breakthrough in ASI development. That research was at Terabyne’s headquarters out west. Is that where the attack would take place? Not enough information yet to know. Not enough to tell one way or the other.

  Nearly thirty meters away, Ripley emerged from the shadows.

  “See anything?” Nick asked.

  Ripley shook his head. “No. You?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You ready to take off or—”

  “Wait.” Nick held up a finger. “Hang on.”

  “What is it?”

  “Shh.” He pressed the finger to his lips. “I think I heard something.”

  Nick cupped one hand behind his ear as he turned his head slowly to try to identify if he actually had heard a noise, and if so, which direction it had come from.

  He was just about to tell Ripley that he was ready to leave when he heard it again.

  Yes.

  Footsteps.

  Faint and distant, but definitely not his ears playing tricks on him.

  Quickly, he swept the light in the direction of the sound and, at the far end of his beam, caught sight of a ski-masked figure escaping toward the other side of the building.