He lifted his fingers over the keyboard, trying to figure out what to say, and then decided on the obvious.
Who are you?
The response came almost immediately.
HOWS UR LEG?
Paul touched the bandage on his leg, feeling the tenderness there. His injury hadn't been public knowledge. In fact, except for Dennis, he didn't think there was anyone other than the people in the hospital who even knew that he'd been injured in Morales' escape.
listening now?
He found only one more fireball in his coat pocket and regretted that he hadn't picked up another bag at his visit to the grocery store the day before. He sucked on it furiously, the intense cinnamon flavor tingling the inside of his mouth. He leaned toward his computer, his eyes intent on the screen, and he typed:
Yes.
Instantly, the words in the black box disappeared, and then a second later the box itself was gone. Another window appeared, this one more like the normal boxes that Paul was familiar with on his computer. It asked for his permission to allow ANONX^17 to access his computer. There was a space with a blinking cursor that required his password.
Inexplicably, without him touching the keyboard, the space for his password filled with black dots as his password was entered. The mouse arrow moved without his fingers, and clicked ACCEPT, and the screen of his computer went first white, and then black. A jumble of letters and words began to fly down the screen, reminding Paul of how computers had booted when he'd first started using them.
Multiple screens of commands and code flashed before his eyes, and all he could do was stare. He felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he wondered what he'd just gotten himself into by even responding to whoever had trespassed into his computer.
ANONX^17
He wondered if that was a program or virus that had suddenly granted itself access to his computer, but then he decided that it had to be a person. Computers could do amazing things, but he didn't think that a computer would make a quip so accurately about his injured leg. No, someone who knew about his leg had written those words, and it had to be the same person who was now hacking his computer.
The dread he felt intensified when the screen suddenly flashed white and a progress bar appeared, filling in as the program was downloaded to his computer downloaded. He felt the sudden urge to slam the computer shut and toss it out the window, but the dread was mixed with a little bit of curiosity.
They had known more about Morales than he could ever have learned. If they knew about Morales, what else did they know, and why were they targeting him?
He thought of the woman he was supposed to meet on the bus, the woman who was supposed to give him the piece of the puzzle that linked his theory about Miami with what had really happened.
The download finished and his computer began the normal process of rebooting. A few seconds later he was staring at his home screen, the background a picture of a western mountain range in full springtime bloom that reminded him of his childhood. It was if the whole thing with the black box and his conversation with ANONX^17 had been a dream.
And then the black box was back, and no time was wasted before another message appeared.
follow the contionum
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mae pulled her feet up into the large, overstuffed chair and curled into a ball. She thought that if she wasn't careful, she would become too comfortable and drift off to sleep. Not that it would be a problem to fall asleep. In fact, it seemed as though the hotel staff almost welcomed it. A soft afghan had been folded on the seat cushions, and was now wrapped around her shoulders. She was sitting in a lounge in the back of the hotel with large floor to ceiling windows along one wall and a fireplace along the other. Mae sat close to the crackling fire, and when she wasn't reading her novel, she would gaze out the windows at the snow-blanketed landscape beyond. She had forgotten how beautiful the winters were in the northeast.
Mae sipped her Double Americano, then set the cup on the table beside her and picked up her book. She'd chosen the book from the hotel's library, and even though she had no context for a courtroom drama, she quite enjoyed the story. Apparently the book had done very well, and when she'd told Ryan about what she was reading, he was very surprised that she'd never heard of the book before. Granted, there was a lot that he didn't know about her, and she didn't know how much she could ever tell him, no matter how serious their relationship became.
Mae stopped reading mid sentence and reflected on that last thought. How serious did she want this to become? How serious could their relationship realistically be? Mae felt safe for the moment, in part because Ryan had made her feel safe, but she knew that no matter where she and her mother had run in the past, no matter how far or how carefully they'd covered their tracks, they were eventually found. Getting close to Ryan would only make it harder to leave, which was inevitable.
Unless ...
She thought back to a fantasy she'd shared with her mom, much like their fantasy to one day visit the purple fields of lavender in France. In their fantasy, they would stop running from the nameless shadows that hunted unceasingly. They would stop hiding, and fight back.
Of course, it was a dream that could never be realized. The hunters were too powerful.
I'm powerful too. The thought tugged at her mind, softly at first, but it came to her with increasing strength. She thought about Miami and the building and their escape. She thought about the forest that had floated before her, great islands of rock and dirt and roots that hovered above the ground.
No. Control.
That other part of her mind responded with its resolute stubbornness and she knew it was true. She couldn’t control the power.
Mae shook the thoughts of fighting back from her mind. When the time came, she would have to run. No matter how she felt about Ryan, she would have to leave him. It was a hard truth to swallow, but she couldn't let her feelings of love ...
Do I love him?
Don't be silly, you've only just met him.
But the way he looked at her, that smile when she walked into the room or when he looked over at her while they drove through falling snow, the way his fingers touched her hand and caressed her skin so gently, as if he were afraid that she was just a dream. The way she had missed him for these few days while he'd been away for work, like gnawing pangs in her stomach, and she only wanted to see him. Was this love, she wondered, and couldn't quite imagine it. Mae had only felt this way once before, that overwhelming feeling, almost pain, in her heart, the longing to smell him and feel his breath on her ear as he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek and neck.
And it was so silly, so pathetic, she could hardly stand it. She was, after all, a terrorist running for her life, having seen things that neither boy could ever have imagined. How could she possibly give her heart like that in complete surrender when she'd never surrendered to anything.
But what is this love, she thought, and bit her lip, remembering the way his lips had tasted that first time he'd kissed her, the snow floating around them, swirling in the icy wind.
For the second time in as many minutes, she shook the thoughts free from her head and returned to her book. She lifted her mug to her lips and swallowed more coffee while she read, allowing the story with its legalese and high drama to fill her mind.
Before long, Mae was once again engrossed in the book, and she didn't realize how much time had passed. When she glanced up, the fire had died to an orange glow, lazy wafts of smoke lifting through the flume and into the chimney. Outside, the snow had stopped falling, and the frozen blue hue of twilight settled in for the late afternoon. She reached for her coffee, but wrinkled her nose when she found that it was cold.
A man walked into the room, carrying an armful of dry wood for the fire. He was tall, with broad shoulders. His hair hung over his ears and was matted to his head, as if until just recently, he had been wearing a hat. She caught a glimpse of his face as he knelt by the hearth, s
tacking the pieces of wood.
His face was tanned and wind blown, and she could tell that he spent much of his time outside in the elements. And something about his face, she couldn't quite place. It was familiar, but somehow not familiar. Like a remnant of something she had once known, but not anymore. His profile was strong, his body lean and muscular, but he moved with a simple grace that was surprising, given his size.
The man stood, turning his face away from hers, and left the room. Her eyes lingered on him as he left, and when he glanced her way, she turned back to her book quickly. She saw his eyes, the glance so fleeting, but she knew those eyes. Her heart thudded with excitement and confusion, and she didn't know why. She felt a twinge of guilt for looking, and then scoffed. Sure, she had feelings for Ryan, but that didn't mean she couldn't look, or that she had to feel bad for checking out another guy. It was the first time in her life that she'd felt the freedom to look, sitting there in the overstuffed arm chair, reading next to the fire.
The nagging feeling that she had to get away, to run far away because they were closing in, and she was not free--
The man came back into the room, carrying another armload of wood, and this time, he was shooting her sideways glances from the corner of his eye, studying her. She kept her eyes on the book, glancing up only when his back was turned and he was stacking wood on the glowing embers of the fire. He leaned closer to the embers and blew into the white hot center, the embers glowing more brightly with each breath, but then quickly dying back to their original glow. He muttered something under his breath that Mae couldn't make out, then stood up, surveying the room and patting his pockets. He spotted a magazine from one of the end tables next to the overstuffed couch and picked it up.
The guy glanced around, his gaze falling on her briefly, and then he was looking over his shoulder while he nonchalantly rifled through the pages of the magazine. He coughed and at the same time, ripped few pages out of the magazine. He crumpled the pages into his hand and stared at them for a few seconds before shrugging and pushing the entire magazine into the glowing embers. He leaned closer and blew until the flames licked the pages of the magazine. It didn't take long for the dry bark on the wood to catch fire, the flames climbing higher and higher. Almost instantly, Mae could feel the warmth coming from the hearth and she smiled as she settled deeper into her chair.
The man wiped his hands and turned to look at her, his expression sheepish and embarrassed.
“Don't say anything, okay?” he said.
She looked at him and suddenly realized who she was talking to. He'd grown older, and for some reason she never pictured him growing older, but it had been more than 10 years. His face had filled out a little, but he still had those kind eyes and the nervous smile. As she stared, she saw a spark of recognition in his eyes as well, as if he'd suddenly recognized her too.
More than 10 years, she thought and felt that same rising balloon of excitement. More than 10 years since they'd been on that ridge, since her first kiss and the feel of his face on hers, and how was it even possible that he was here?
“Adam?”
He smiled, and she knew that smile. Loved that smile.
“Hello, Mae.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Paul walked along the sidewalk, his injured leg, stiff from the bandage and cast, swinging out in wide steps and swishing at the snow and slush along the sidewalk. He'd been given the go ahead from his doctor to allow small amounts of weight on his leg, but he still was unable to fully bend it enough to walk normally.
It was a brighter day than was normal for that time of year in Chicago, with the sun shining but the air still freezing cold. Paul enjoyed the weather though, and hoped the sun would keep shining. Once winter got going in the Midwest, it didn't let up, and the cold air and constant storm clouds overhead were enough to cause a little craziness to come out in people. His breath misted the cold air as he walked, a billowing waft of cinnamon scents.
Paul arrived at the little café near his office, and stepped inside. The little bell above the door sounded too loud, announcing his arrival. He resisted the urge to reach up and silence the bell as the door swung shut.
The cafe had big windows in the front, allowing the sunshine to brighten the small space drastically. It was still early for the breakfast crowd, but several people sat at the bar, nursing steaming mugs of coffee and munching on toast. Paul stood in the doorway, glancing around the dining area, which was filled with rows of booths and tables.
“Hey, boss,” Dennis said from his left. Paul looked in his direction, and Dennis gave him a curt wave, followed with a subtle eye roll that would have made teenage girls across the world proud.
“Dennis, thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“Well,” Dennis sipped from his mug, looking none too happy to be there, “I was coming into work anyway today, just not planning on coming in so early.”
“This is urgent, and I appreciate it. Your wife okay?”
“You're still not winning any points with her,” Dennis said. “In fact, your 5:00 a.m. call this morning probably lost you a good chunk of those points.”
An older-looking waitress named Naty stepped up to the table, wiping her hands on her apron. She was friendly, but put on a show of being perpetually in a sour mood.
“You're here early, Paul,” Naty said. “Cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Paul smiled up at her and said, “And maybe a biscotti to go with it, but otherwise no food.”
“Coming right up,” she said in a drab monotone that fit with the cliché, and walked away. It always amazed Paul to see how closely she fit the common idea of what an older cafe waitress in the city would be like. He wondered if all the waitresses in the city had seen how they should look and act like they did on television and movies, and then all adopted the same personalities and wardrobes.
“Okay, you've got to tell me what is going on, or I'm going to take a nap in my car. I figure that you've blown two full hours that I could have been sleeping, starting with your phone call at the crack of dawn, and in case I wasn't clear before, you may want to stay away from my wife, cause' she's likely to lop off your head.”
“I get it, sorry.” Paul flashed an amused smile, and then instantly became serious. He continued, “Something pretty crazy went down last night.”
“Let me guess,” Dennis said dryly. “You tried to save a cop from being killed, succeeded without realizing that the cop actually wanted you dead as well. Instead of fleeing the scene, like any normal person would do, you actually helped that cop to your car, handed over the keys, and then allowed him to bust a cap in your knee.”
Paul smiled and raised his hands in defense. Naty came to the table with an empty cup on a saucer, sitting next to an almond biscotti that had been dipped in chocolate. She set the cup on the table, and both Dennis and Paul stopped talking as they watched her fill his cup with steaming coffee. She looked at both of them with arched eyebrows, then shook her head and muttered something under her breath as she walked away.
“That's not exactly how it happened, but I'll take it,” Paul said. “And you're right. Things haven't exactly been quiet in my neck of the woods.”
Dennis grunted.
“Okay, so quiet is a little bit of an understatement,” Paul allowed, and massaged the bulging bandage that covered the place where he'd been shot. His leg didn't hurt like it had for so many days and weeks following the incident, but even just the effort in getting to the cafe had left the area sore and tender. The low throbbing was a constant reminder of that night in the hospital and how close he'd been to learning the truth.
How close he'd been to giving his life to learn the truth.
He felt a chill and pushed that thought away, returning his focus to Dennis, who was looking more annoyed by the minute.
“So, what's got you all hot and bothered today?” Dennis said, not even trying to hide his discontent. Paul considered how to begin, then leaned across the table and low
ered his head. He spoke in a whisper, shooting furtive glances around to make sure no one was paying any attention to him.
“I've talked to someone who knows about what happened. Even better really, because they know about Morales, and how they--whoever they is--were trying to cover the tracks. They know about Miami, and I was right. It wasn't an accident.” Paul drank some of his coffee and it burned the back of his throat, but he was too excited to let the burn bother him.
Dennis stared back at him for several long seconds, then looked away, shaking his head.
“What are you talking about? Who knew about Morales?”
“You've got to whisper,” Paul said.
“Whispering draws attention, boss,” Dennis said. “Whispering tells the world that you have a secret, and people like to know secrets.”
Paul closed his eyes and rubbed at his eyelids.
“Okay, let me back up to the beginning,” Paul said, his voice still low. “I was up late last night, really late, and I was on my computer for a bit, but it wasn't working. The computer, I mean, was frozen. There was a box, or a window, I don't even know if that's what you call it, and it was open right in the center of the screen. I couldn't click out of it, and the screen stayed that way until I fell asleep. When I woke up, there was a message.”
Dennis held up his hand. “You've got to slow down, boss. So you're on the computer. Why?”
“I couldn't sleep. Why does that matter?”
“It matters a lot,” Dennis said. “Why couldn't you sleep?”
Paul didn't answer, and Dennis knew. While in the hospital, Dennis had sat with him a few times during the night. His assistant had claimed that he felt guilty for not being with Paul when Morales pulled the gun and went psycho-cop on him, and maybe that was true, but Paul thought that Dennis was simply bored. He and Dennis had worked together for several years, and they were both more comfortable working through the night than the day. It was quieter, for one, with fewer distractions, and ideas and different angles to stories seemed to come more naturally. Without Paul giving orders, the guy was probably at a loss for what to do during those long, dark hours.
The Snow Swept Trilogy Page 35
