The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  Perditori held the cloth to his mouth, breathing shallowly. His face shone with sweat. “And now I am afraid my time has run out. I will contact you again shortly before your meeting with the director. You can give me your answer then.”

  Perditori vanished.

  Rimes blinked. The cockpit was empty except for him. Outside, the shimmering clouds rolled beneath the plane.

  A moment later, Kleigshoen returned to the cabin. Her eyes were puffy. She pulled her jacket tighter around her and settled into the pilot’s seat.

  Saying goodbye to Metcalfe.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  Rimes rubbed at his brow. “Not well.”

  Kleigshoen pretended to concentrate on the control panel. “Give it some time, Jack. You knew this wasn’t going to be easy.”

  Rimes watched Kleigshoen out of the corner of his eye. I didn’t even tell her why. What the hell does she know that she’s not letting on about?

  33

  10 March 2164. Washington, D.C.

  * * *

  Except for a terminal that had been installed while he was gone, Rimes’s office on the ninth floor of the Intelligence Bureau was just as he’d left it. He ran his hand along the terminal’s smooth plastic surface for a moment, then turned to glance out the window.

  He watched the people filtering out of the building, heading to the mass transit station.

  How many of them even know each other? They live sealed off from each other, sealed off from anything but their own work. The important ones—like Metcalfe—work in vaults. A nobody like me gets a window. How broken is that?

  Kleigshoen paced the room. She examined the walls, the chairs, then finally the window. She sighed.

  She turned to glance at Rimes. “How’s your hand?”

  “Better.” Rimes made a fist and rotated it. That was an understatement; the healing was proceeding at a staggering pace.

  “And the dreams?”

  He studied her for a moment. Her brow was creased. Her eyes darted. She licked her lips.

  She’s worried. About me? About Kwon?

  He shook his head. “Nothing more, lately.” There’d been no discussion of the Perditori vision, and there wouldn’t be. “But I’ve been thinking about Kwon’s memories. Dr. Michaels theorized the software sorted them chronologically. I’m not so sure.”

  “You said you were able to move deeper into the canyon to find older memories.”

  “I was,” Rimes agreed. “But I also found older memories toward the canyon entry. And I found different time periods intermixed.”

  “So you think they were just random memories?”

  “No. I think they were sorted.” He worked through the thoughts as they came to him. “I think the software was weighting the memories … I think they’re what mattered most to him.”

  “That’s pretty significant,” Kleigshoen said. “You should talk to Dr. Michaels about it.”

  “I will. Once things …”

  A knock sounded, and Executive Assistant Director Marshall entered the room, dragging the heavy smells of cologne and alcohol with him.

  Marshall smiled broadly and extended a hand. Rimes recoiled momentarily, then recovered and shook it. Marshall gave him a vigorous shake. Before it would have seemed authentic. Now it bugged Rimes.

  What’s wrong with me?

  “Jack,” Marshall said. His face assumed a sadder expression. “Dana. You have my sympathies.” He took her hand, then pulled her in to give her a brief hug, then cleared his throat.

  “Sorry about the wait. Good news: we wrapped the budget meeting a little earlier than expected. How about we head over to the Appalachian conference room and get this over with, so I can take you two out for a bite afterwards?”

  Rimes nodded. “Works for me, sir.”

  “I’d like that,” Kleigshoen agreed.

  The Appalachian was three hallways down, across from the floor’s main break room. It was everything the Fort Sill briefing rooms weren’t—modern, filled with the latest gadgets, ostentatious.

  Marshall helped himself to a cup of water from a side table stacked with refreshments. Kleigshoen and Rimes settled into their seats. The lights dimmed, enhancing the system displays that hovered over the table.

  Marshall settled at the head of the table. “Okay, Dana, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Kleigshoen gave Marshall one of her flirtatious smiles and curled her hair back over her ears. She scrolled through the opening text. “You’ve seen our preliminary findings. What we’ve done here is to, as Brent would say—” She coughed, her voice tight. “Excuse me. We’ve connected the dots. This all began with the X-17 heist. We’ve identified five primary suspects in that operation based on means, motive, and opportunity. Captain Anthony Moltke, Sergeant First Class Edward Martinez, Sergeant Lewis Wolford, Sergeant Peter Kirk, and Corporal Jacob Stern. Each had a history of debts, mostly through gambling. A sixth potential suspect is Corporal Ladell Barlowe. He’s also carrying a heavy debt load after getting his mother through rehab.”

  Marshall winked at Rimes and gave his most engaging smile. “I’m sure Dana’s told you already we ran you through the same screening as the others. We had to be sure we could trust you.”

  Rimes gave a quick nod, then focused on the presentation as images of his friends—his brothers—materialized above him. He remembered his time training under Martinez, the missions with Wolford.

  He’d always considered them good men, people he could trust with his life. To see them presented as corrupt, murdering mercenaries—regardless of how accurate it was—hurt.

  “Of the suspects listed, only Captain Moltke, Sergeant Martinez, and Corporal Barlowe survived the mission to T-Corp 72,” Kleigshoen said. “Thanks to the data we were able to recover from Kwon Myung-bak, we have enough evidence to connect Captain Moltke to Kwon.”

  Marshall held up a finger. “Help me out with this piece. What sort of evidence?”

  “We sent messages—” Kleigshoen began.

  “They were intriguing,” Marshall admitted, stroking his chin. “But I can’t justify a commitment based off them. You’ve got Moltke meeting Kwon in a bar. You can’t place the bar, but you’ve provided several sketches and notes … I mean, what, render an image and push it out to every police precinct and sheriff’s office and hope someone can identify it? Ask them to visit every bar in their jurisdiction to see if it has a spot in it like what you saw?” Marshall looked from Kleigshoen to Rimes.

  “We’re working on it,” Kleigshoen growled and flashed Rimes an impatient glare.

  “The memories are getting easier to decipher,” Rimes said. “I can recall a little more each time I think about them. Kwon’s senses were engineered to be able to pick up so much detail.”

  “You think you could locate this bar? Eventually?” Marshall asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Rimes said. “I can run through missing persons files. I was planning to start that tonight.”

  “Missing persons?”

  Rimes looked at Kleigshoen for support. She nodded.

  “Kwon was a serial killer,” Rimes explained. “He killed at least a dozen women. The woman he picked up at this bar was Thai, between one-hundred-fifty and one-hundred-sixty-three centimeters, forty-four to forty-seven kilograms, twenty to twenty-five years old. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, a slight scar on her chin, dental work on her incisors.”

  Marshall’s brow wrinkled. He smiled worriedly, looking first at Rimes, then at Kleigshoen. “You could tell all that from Kwon’s memories?”

  “No, sir,” Rimes admitted. “But Kwon could. I’m still struggling with it all.”

  Marshall sipped at his water while he considered Rimes’s words. Finally, he set the cup down and clucked his tongue softly. “Okay, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Start your research on the missing persons data tonight. Since you’re searching for a victim, not a suspect, I have authority to approve using what might otherwise be deemed profiling parameters. But
I want the two of you on the first plane to Fort Sill tomorrow.

  “You have one week to get me something.”

  Kleigshoen powered down the display, then sighed as if centering herself. “Thank you, Jim.”

  Marshall paused for a moment, then stood. Kleigshoen and Rimes stood as well to follow him out, but he stopped at the door and leaned against the frame. He turned. All pretense at friendliness and cordiality were gone. He drummed his fingers against the wood.

  “Honestly, I was hoping for more. I think a celebration dinner would be premature at this point. Let’s meet again when you’ve got something I can work with. You get me something actionable, I’ll make it special for you.”

  Rimes looked down. His hands shook with anger. Marshall's attitude was misplaced, misguided. He left; Rimes looked up and caught Kleigshoen’s eye. Her face was tight with emotion, but he couldn’t tell for sure what it was.

  One week. One week to take down my brothers and friends. One week to betray the men who are my family.

  34

  10 March 2164. Washington, D.C.

  * * *

  Rimes stared at the display terminal. He rubbed his face to work away the fatigue that ate at him, slowing his reaction time and eroding his focus. He shifted in his chair, starting when his knees brushed against Kleigshoen’s on the opposite side of the desk.

  He’d been so caught up in his research, he’d forgotten she was even there.

  She looked up from her own research, distracted. “You okay?”

  Rimes stood, then stretched. His joints popped loudly, but along with the fatigue came the reassuring tingling of the accelerants and stem cell treatment at work. His foot was no longer sore, merely tender; the wound on his hand nothing but a faint scar. The nerve damage was well on its way to complete recovery.

  “Yeah. I’m just tired. No surprise—jet lag, the healing accelerants … it always takes a toll.”

  Kleigshoen bit her lip. “I warned you we’d need a stronger case for Jim to buy into it.”

  Rimes looked out the office window.

  Kleigshoen sighed quietly. “I can work in the vault, if I’m bugging you?”

  Rimes turned and shook his head. He was tense, anxious, ready to act, but there was no target, no clear objective. “It’s not you. It’s this whole situation: the way he blew us off, the search, the unknown.”

  Kleigshoen defocused momentarily. She shifted in her chair, a more comfortable and less worn one she’d wheeled in from a nearby conference room. “Don’t let Jim’s behavior bother you. He’s under a lot of pressure on this. There’s nothing personal in it. He can’t commit resources on what we’ve provided so far. He’s already spent so much, and all he has to show for it is …” She stopped and touched a knuckle to her lips.

  “I’m sorry, Dana. I can’t imagine what it must be like losing a friend and a mentor.” Yet here I am, cooperating with you to send Martinez to his death.

  “You work alone a lot of the time,” Kleigshoen said after a moment. “Brent was my partner for … well, it felt like forever. I can’t even imagine working alone now.”

  Rimes settled back into his seat and stared at the display.

  “Any luck with the search?” she asked.

  “Nearly two hundred hits so far. All dead ends.”

  The returns on what he’d considered narrow criteria had nauseated him. So many missing women. The implications for his own children were unsettling. And the search engine was still processing images based on his criteria, and wouldn’t be complete for another forty minutes.

  “I’m going to get a few things from my station in the vault,” Kleigshoen said. “I—we’ll need to shut things down in a little bit. Our flight leaves at ten-fifteen. I don’t know about you, but I need some sleep.”

  Rimes grunted agreement.

  She exited the office. His eyes lingered on her legs for just a moment.

  With some effort, he closed his eyes and thought of Molly and the baby. She’d said from the start she’d wanted children and that she would carry them to term rather than use any of the popular proxy methods. It was a huge sacrifice. He suddenly felt selfish and petty.

  An intense heat burned within him—but was it for Molly and the baby, or Kleigshoen?

  Someone coughed lightly, and Rimes’s eyes popped open.

  “Your opportunity for coming to some kind of decision is now.” Perditori sat draped over Kleigshoen’s chair, wearing the same jumpsuit.

  Rimes slowly massaged his brow. “You’re late.”

  “I was otherwise engaged.” Perditori waved a hand toward the hallway behind him. “Have you decided?”

  Yeah. I’ve decided I’m insane. Or desperate. Maybe both. Or maybe I’m not even making the decision for myself. Rimes looked at Perditori’s image and saw nothing to indicate Perditori was sensing the answer. “What choice do I have? I’ll go forward with it for now.”

  Perditori pursed his lips. “Things are already in motion, and inertia can be quite a dangerous thing. Changing your mind would not be a good idea, Captain Rimes.”

  “Sergeant.”

  Perditori waved away the correction. “The data devices are in Director Marshall’s office. Be quick enough, and your partner will be none the wiser.”

  Rimes pushed back his chair and started walking toward the door. He could feel Perditori’s eyes on him the entire time. He took several tentative steps down the hallway, broke into a run, then slowed himself to a quick walk.

  Perditori trailed him soundlessly.

  I’m going to stop any second now and tell him the deal is off.

  “What sort of security do I have to deal with?” Rimes asked.

  “Nothing to speak of,” Perditori replied. “The security measures were designed to keep intruders out of the building and the offices. The patrolling guard is on the floor above and will be for several minutes. You already know how to gain access to the office.”

  I do? How? Of course! My first meeting with Marshall.

  Marshall’s office door was protected by a fairly simple digital pad and card reader. Out of habit, Rimes had noted the combination when Marshall had entered it at their first meeting there. Rimes’s security card information would be logged automatically, but no one should have any reason to check.

  If I don’t screw this up.

  He swiped his card, entered the combination, and turned the knob.

  The door opened. Rimes froze.

  The room smelled like a lair; Marshall’s musky cologne clung to everything. The office felt low, dark, and shadowed, as though a predator were waiting to jump out from behind an armchair or the desk. Digital photos hung on the wall—pictures of VIPs shaking hands with Marshall, who smiled widely, showing his teeth. Knowing what he knew of Marshall now, the pictures felt like trophies.

  Bones of prey.

  Rimes cautiously edged into the office.

  Perditori sat on the desk with his knees crossed, then waved his hand in the air.

  The bar rose off to my left. A country dance tune blared from overdriven speakers. The heat radiated from the crowd. The cologne—Marshall’s cologne—drifted from the shadows to my right.

  Alcohol hung heavy in the air, only overcome by the musky press of the patrons—desperate laborers and even more desperate whores—come to share company and obliterate their awareness. And through it all, the cologne—an extravagance few could afford in even moderate amounts.

  Moltke shoved the napkin across the tabletop, and his partner nodded from the darkness.

  “The envelope,” Perditori said. “On the desk.”

  Rimes moved to Marshall’s desk with a dreamlike awkwardness, picking up an official-looking plastic envelope. He flipped the flap up and saw two data sticks within.

  Two? Barlowe said they found three sticks’ worth of data.

  He emptied the data sticks into his hand and set the envelope back where he’d found it.

  “Now go,” Perditori said.

  Rimes jogged
back to his office, Perditori effortlessly following.

  Rimes began the data transfer process. Evidence of the transfer would be easy enough to clean up once the data was downloaded—but speeding up the transfer was out of his league.

  It dragged on.

  When the second data stick finally completed copying, Rimes popped it out of the terminal’s base. Someone was coming down the hall: he shoved the data sticks into his pants pocket, turned off his terminal, and started to pace—then quickly sat on the desk corner and tried to look relaxed. Perditori vanished.

  Kleigshoen stepped into the room. “Jack! I expected to find you still staring at the display. Did you find something?”

  Rimes shook his head, hoping to explain away the anxiety he couldn’t hope to hide. “I’m worried. What if I can’t find her? What if my understanding of Kwon’s memories is wrong?”

  “It’s not the end of the world. We’ll find something to nail these guys with,” Kleigshoen said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. She pulled it away after an awkward pause. “They’re still sitting on a large cache of X-17. Maybe we should focus on that? How many places could they store it without raising suspicions?”

  Despite all the distractions, Rimes found himself intrigued by Kleigshoen’s idea. “Did the Bureau run a search of stolen or rented vehicles that could have transported the canisters? A helicopter would have a fairly limited range without refueling, and I’d imagine that’s a lot easier to track than cargo trucks.”

  Kleigshoen seemed to center herself and shook her head. “Our best guess was that they used both—a cargo helicopter for the initial extraction and some trucks to get the load to its final destination. At one point, we were confident we’d identified the helicopter they used; unfortunately, by the time we finally located it, it had been destroyed. All that remained was trace evidence inside the cargo bay, nothing likely to withstand a good defense challenge. Even if it were allowed in trial, it would be circumstantial at best, and it doesn’t get us any closer to where they would store it.”