The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

  “Jeeze man, this game is rigged.”

  Ryan was beginning to think so as well. He'd never had cops this early in the game, or a civilian truck that smashed into the drivers, for that matter. Up ahead, he saw the turnoff, a skinny dirt road that ran between a field and a forest. The field was on the opposite side of the dirt road, and was framed with a wooden fence.

  It would be a tight fit, but they had to lose the cops. The last thing they needed was for this to turn into a police chase, and it would be worse yet if they attracted media attention. A few years before, in a game that Ryan wasn't playing, a couple of drivers had incited a police chase that had ended in a fiery crash that was broadcast over national news. The passenger had been killed and the driver arrested. He was still in prison.

  Of course, he wasn't paid.

  The dirt road approached quickly, and Charlie tightened his grip on the handle above the passenger side door, in anticipation of the tight turn.

  “Gonna make it, man,” Charlie muttered, and Ryan could hear the panic in his voice. The cops were closing in and if they didn't lose them—

  Ryan waited until the last possible second before turning the wheel. The car skidded along the pavement to the edge of the road, went over the lip, and slid across the gravel shoulder. He felt the momentum of the car pull away from him on the gravel, felt his control of the car rush away and disappear, as if it hadn't ever been there before. Ryan tried desperately to correct the trajectory of the car, but they were traveling at too fast a speed for his actions to make much of a difference.

  The car smashed through the wooden fence post, the metal bending around the solid wood. Ryan had just enough time to see Charlie's head smash into the side window, knocking him instantly unconscious. Blood splattered the glass.

  The airbags deployed, and the car was in the air, rolling up and over the fence. Ryan's head knocked into something hard, he wasn't sure what it was, and he felt a terrible pain in his arm, as if it were being wrenched from its socket. Everything he saw was a darkened blur, images flashing before his eyes, and then the car landed on its wheels, and it was over almost as quickly as it had started.

  Ryan faded from the world as he saw the police cars slow by the wreckage, then speed on down the road. He saw a flash of fire in the hood of the car, the orange flames reaching toward the heavens, black smoke unfurling like enemy flags.

  Several minutes passed where he dipped in and out of unconsciousness, until Ryan could open his eyes. He felt the cool air—though not as cold as it had been in Chicago—and he stared up through the broken skylight at the clear sky above. The stars twinkled at him, and he reached for Mae's hand.

  When he turned, she was sitting next to him, smiling with that half smile. It reminded him of the time they'd driven into the mountains and parked in the deserted parking lot, watching the snow fall around them, their fingers intertwined and warm. The engine had been turned off then, their breath misting the glass.

  Ryan wondered what she was doing at that moment, and he missed her.

  Mae's eyes twinkled, and he tried to sit up to see if she was real or just a flicker of his imagination.

  He looked at the stars, holding her hand in his, and then he felt something warm on his cheek. He knew it was blood, that it was running down the side of his face, but for a second, he allowed himself to imagine Mae's cheek against his, her warm breathing on his ear, the smell of her hair like coconuts, and the feel of her lips on his.

  She was asleep now, safe.

  Ryan stared at the stars and allowed the darkness to overtake him again. His arm felt like it was on fire.

  fire

  He tilted his head and saw the hood of the car still on fire, the flames rising and the smoke like a monster crawling along the hood toward him.

  She was safe, in the hotel room, and he'd seen her that morning.

  Distantly, Ryan knew that he was falling for her, and it wasn't supposed to be like that.

  She was dangerous, he knew that too.

  And he had a job to do.

  The stars glittered, but the smoke blotted them out into an inky darkness.

  Part Three: Move, Before the Devil Gets Ya

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “How long have you been in that room?” Dennis asked.

  “I don't know, a couple of weeks,” Paul said. He crumpled the Chinese takeout boxes and shoved them into the flimsy plastic bag in which the food had been delivered. The bag had a giant smiley face on it, but Paul didn't feel particularly happy. The food wasn't sitting well.

  “I know you're recovering, but you got to get out of that apartment.”

  “I know, I just need a little more time.”

  “What about physical therapy?”

  “My therapist comes here. The doctors don't want me putting a lot of weight on my leg.”

  Paul stood and hobbled to the countertop where he found a fresh bag of atomic fireballs. He opened the bag, took a few in his hands and returned to the couch, popping one into his mouth as he went.

  “Are you working on anything?” Dennis asked after a moment of hesitation.

  “Yeah. The same.”

  “You've got to drop that Paul.” Dennis's voice was raised. “They shot you man, and they might do worse, if you don't leave it alone. From the last we spoke, I doubt if you even know how this all fits, or if it’s connected at all! Morales could have just been the guy randomly involved in both incidents. A complete coincidence.”

  “He knew.”

  “Well, then that's worse. Because now they know who you are and they know that you're digging at a grave that's supposed to be left alone! I'm telling you this as a friend, Paul. You don't have anyone looking out for you, and you need it.”

  “I'm close Dennis, very close.” Paul looked at the wall opposite his bed, which was covered with clippings and notes. So cliché, he thought, to use the wall like that, but it helped him see the whole picture.

  Paul stared at the enlarged photographs of the destroyed portion of the forest preserve. He leaned closer to study the tangle of trees and boulders, looking for patterns and clues.

  “Not close enough.” Dennis paused, and Paul pictured him pacing the floor like he always did when he was flustered. “Unless you can publish a story tomorrow and crack this thing open so the whole wide freaking world knows what you know, you're not safe.”

  “I can't-”

  “Think about it,” Dennis interrupted. “Let's talk tomorrow, but think about it man, you've lost too much because of this story.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” Paul ended the call and tossed his phone on the bed. His stomach grumbled from the Chinese takeout, and he thought he might be sick. He opened another cinnamon candy and put it in his mouth. The cinnamon always seemed to help calm his nerves, and he hoped it would help settle his stomach as well.

  He sighed heavily, feeling dejected and frustrated and lost. How had he given so much to this story? He wondered. Screw truth and screw justice. Who needed big brother when the world willingly swallowed whatever it was fed.

  Paul slid the papers into a pile on the opposite side of the table, and flipped open his laptop. He waited a few seconds for the home screen to load, and when it did, a window appeared. The window was entirely black and unframed. There was no indication of what program was in use. He stared at the window, waiting for it to disappear, for his computer to begin its normal functions. He was no computer guru, and barely had the wherewithal to use the computer for much more than typing articles and searching the web. Even then, computers had missed his generation by a few years, and he'd been well into his career before computers became mainstream. As a result, Paul preferred to do most of his work in the field, researching, learning, and investigating things on his own. He was a stark contrast to the newest generation, who gathered news and sources from social networking and user-generated news sites.

  Paul didn't understand half of it, and maybe never woul
d, and he certainly didn't understand the black box that sat slightly off center, in the foreground of his computer screen. Paul moused over the top left corner and clicked the tiny “x” that appeared to close the window.

  Nothing happened.

  He clicked his mouse in the window, and outside the window, and nothing happened.

  “Ah, who cares anyway?” he asked nobody, and then thought again of the half bottle of whiskey above the sink. He started to get up, but the distance from the couch to the kitchen, and his throbbing leg, made him rethink it. He was tired, and he was feeling the effects of surging adrenaline one minute, and then no energy the next. Maybe he would try and get some sleep after all.

  He gave the computer one last try by clicking the mouse on various places on the screen maniacally, and watched nothing happen.

  Stupid computer, he thought, and held the power button until the computer turned off. He pushed the power button again, and it began the process of rebooting.

  Paul leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Just a few minutes, he thought, and then we'll see if the computer is willing to behave.

  Even before his last thought was fully realized, Paul was sound asleep on the couch.

  Several minutes later, the computer finished rebooting. The home screen appeared. The black window was still in the foreground, slightly off center.

  A small line appeared in the top left-hand corner of the box, blinking into and out of existence on the plane of blackness.

  _

  The cursor blinked for three full minutes while Paul slept soundly. The computer screen lit the table and the area around it in the dark room, and Paul's breathing slowed and became more lumbered as his REM cycles began.

  Then, suddenly, words appeared.

  are you listening now?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Paul woke a few hours later and it was still dark outside. He sat up and stretched his back and neck, feeling very stiff from his burst of movement a few hours before. He glanced at his watch and saw that he could still sleep for an hour or two before he would need to get up. Paul was never a morning person, and he always cherished those morning hours when he could sleep just a little longer. It was one of the few things that he shared in common with his ex-wife, and he fondly remembered those times where they'd stay in bed, snuggled under the covers, warm against the cold.

  He stood up, deciding that his body had suffered enough for one night, thinking that he would get those extra winks in his bed. As he stood, Paul noticed that his computer had fallen asleep. He leaned forward and tapped the spacebar, wondering for the millionth time why they referred to the computer as sleeping. Of course he knew why it was called sleeping, but he thought it was stupid, regardless. Keep giving computers and machines human traits, and before long you'll have computers and machines acting and thinking on their own, without their human makers.

  The screen turned on, and he sighed when he saw the box still there, not immediately noticing the words that were still at the top. When he finally saw the words, he leaned closer, reading them carefully.

  are you listening now?

  Paul stared at the words, not comprehending what, exactly, he was seeing. At first he wondered if whatever program that had caused the box to appear was sending some sort of error message, but the words didn't make sense in that context.

  Maybe a virus? he wondered. Other than it screwing up your computer, he wasn't entirely sure what a virus did, but he knew it couldn't be a good thing.

  He sat back down on the couch and continued staring at the computer monitor. Nothing else had changed, except for the black box and its message. Was it possible that someone had gotten into his computer somehow and sent him a message? Paul had seen movies and heard of people being able to hack their way into just about anything, but why would anyone want to hack his machine? For that matter, how would the hacker have even known that the computer was his? It belonged to the Gazette, and he used it only for typing up articles and other work stuff. Besides his email account, he didn't think that his name could be associated with the computer at all.

  But the message was a clear question, and he didn't think that it could be a virus. Of course, the virus might be tearing up the digital guts of the computer as he sat looking at it, the message a possible taunt. But why would someone write that, unless they wanted a response?

  As he thought about it, Paul reached into the pocket of his jacket, which was draped across the chair, and plucked out two cinnamon fireballs, which he popped into his mouth. Usually, he didn't like to entertain his weakness for sweets during the night, but at the moment, he was acting out of habit. He always sucked on candy, preferably something cinnamon, when he was thinking hard.

  Okay, so someone wanted a response, but who? Would Morales go through the effort of hacking his machine to ask if he was listening? Listening to what? The gunshot that had blown out his knee?

  He didn't think that Morales would send a message in place of a well aimed bullet—one that would finish the job.

  If not Morales, then who?

  Paul shrugged, then moved the mouse over the box and a cursor appeared. He paused, wondering why he hadn't noticed that before when trying to figure out what the box was for. He typed:

  hello

  and then felt stupid. Hello? Paul didn't even know if there was someone on the receiving end of the message. He watched the computer screen, waiting for something to happen. When thirty seconds passed, and nothing did, he sighed, feeling foolish. The computer was messed up and he was tired, and maybe this was all just about as real as the assassin who'd been in his room earlier.

  Paul leaned forward to close the laptop and finally slip between the tangled bedcovers, but he stopped when a word appeared in the box:

  listening?

  The word appeared and sent a shiver down Paul's spine. So it was a hacker then, someone who'd tapped into his computer through the internet. He had no idea how this had happened, or why someone would target him, but he didn't like it. He wondered if he should call his assistant, Dennis, who would probably have a much better grasp of just what was going on here. Paul glanced at the tiny clock on his computer screen and saw that if he called, he would wake up both Dennis and his wife. Already, Paul knew that his wife despised him for the crazy hours that Dennis worked, but that was only partly Paul's fault. Both he and Dennis preferred to work in the quiet hours of the night.

  Calling Dennis at this hour was not an option. He'd have to wait until morning to fill his assistant in on what was happening. He lifted his fingers to type a response, but words began appearing, almost faster than he could read.

  william forester a/k/a robert morales

  born june 17 1983 seattle washington

  army ranger, court martialed for killing two soldiers in his unit

  first degree murder; in prison at joint compound RAF LAKENHEATH, where supposedly committed suicide

  public record ends, but robert morales begins. hired as detective in Miami PD homicide but no

  record of any investigation

  or arrests

  part of rescue operation at ground zero miami.

  record stays in miami but all morales related data is off the grid for several years until he reappears as an officer on the chicago police department, but still off grid. falsified reports filed to superior officers, but otherwise no data found until shooting at o'hare international and hospital, only ghost data. All data ERASED, no record of robert morales.

  disappeared.

  Paul read the message with growing disbelief. Who had this information, and why were they sending it to him? After the shooting, he'd done a little bit of his own research (or rather, Dennis had done the research while he was stuck in bed at the same hospital at which he was shot). They'd come up with virtually no information on the guy. The media coverage of the shooting at the airport was rampant in the hours just following the actual incident, but then fell strangely quiet. What had happened at the hospital was barely m
entioned as well, and before long, Paul realized that the same forces that had covered up the attack in Miami were at work on the crimes in Chicago.

  The whole thing made him angry, almost as much as it scared him. The amount of power that someone would need to have to control the media and police investigations and to virtually wipe crimes from records as if they hadn't existed, and then to quickly divert the public attention to another crisis in Washington or chemical warfare in a faraway country, was astounding. There were so many things to divert the public's attention, that a conspiracy about some shootings in Chicago, even when several innocent people were killed, was quickly pushed to the back of the mind.

  Dennis, who had always been skeptical about Paul's belief that the destruction of the building in Miami was the result of an attack, had seen this unfold. Together, they watched information slowly disappear from public record and become unavailable. He'd personally called the police department and had been given the runaround on a case that was no longer a priority. Later, he was told that no such case existed.

  As much as it made Paul angry that someone, somewhere, was literally getting away with murder, it scared his assistant. Dennis figured—and he was probably correct—that if whoever was doing the cover up was powerful enough for such a widespread operation, then that power could also make someone disappear.

  This was the stuff, Dennis would say over and over again, about unmarked vans pulling up to the curb, shoving you inside, and then poof, you're gone forever. Dennis did not want any part in it, and even threatened to quit if Paul kept pushing and kicking for answers. You can only kick the hornets’ nest so many times before you get some really pissed off bugs.

  Paul read through the message again and decided that his searches and attempts at research would necessarily have shown up in data that was publicly accessible. How else would this messenger know that he'd even been investigating Morales? For that matter, who was the messenger, and why now?