Impact
Page 26
“Where’s the hard drive?”
“He took it with him.”
Son of a bitch. He felt a trembling rage. The job was a bust. Without the hard drive he wouldn’t get paid.
There still might be a way to catch up to Ford. But first, he had to clean up—kill the girl, return to his boat, do the father, and get his ass back to the mainland. Then he could pursue Ford to Washington. No use wasting more time here. He shoved Abbey to the ground and, so as not to dirty himself, backed up a step.
She sprawled among the rocks, trying to rise.
“Move and you’re dead.”
She stopped trying to move. Bracing himself, his legs apart and the Glock Desert Eagle in both hands, he aimed at Abbey’s head and squeezed the trigger.
73
Ford found what he was looking for in Topsham, Maine—a small strip mall open late. He pulled up to an electronics store, went in, and bought a nondescript hard drive. At the Kinko’s next door he printed out the suite of images from the deimos machine file, after carefully removing any references to Deimos itself, and shoved them in his briefcase. Using their computers, he burned four DVDs with the relevant suite of images from the deimos machine file. From a department store he bought nail polish remover, white enamel paint, a roll of paint-masking tape, a black Magic Marker, a box, brown parcel paper, and bubble wrap.
Back at his car, using the nail polish remover, he stripped all the identifying labels, logos, and serial numbers from the new hard drive. He masked out a square area on the side with the tape, painted it with white enamel, and put it under the car’s floor heater, cranking it full blast.
While that was drying, he fetched shipping materials from the FedEx dropoff. He wrote a note:
The password is FuckNPF1. Look at all the images in the DEIMOS MACHINE file and the series of radar images R-2756–2760. THESE ARE REAL IMAGES, NO ALTERATION. They depict an alien weapon at the bottom of Voltaire crater on Deimos, one of the moons of Mars. This weapon fired on the Earth on April 14 and then on the Moon tonight—you’ve seen the results. This is the biggest science story ever. Just look at the images and you’ll understand. Publish right away or you’ll be slapped with an injunction as this is highly classified information.
He sealed it in an envelope and taped it to the side of the original hard drive, wrapped the drive in several layers of bubble wrap and brown paper, and wrote on the outside:
IMPORTANT! PROPERTY OF MARTIN KOLODY, SCIENCE EDITOR, WASHINGTON POST. IF LOST, PLEASE RETURN ASAP, ALL EXPENSES WILL BE REIMBURSED.
He thought for a moment and then added: $500 REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN, GUARANTEED.
He then filled out a FedEx mailing label. For recipient he put down a completely fictitious name and address. For sender he put down a fake name but the real address of a well-run boutique hotel in D.C. not far from the Post’s editorial offices.
Putting the four DVDs into plain mailers, he addressed them to the science editor of The New York Times, the editor of Scientific American, the president of the National Association for the Advancement of Science, and the president of the National Academy of Sciences. He wrote a brief of the situation to include in each package and placed media mail stickers on them, with the requisite postage.
He slid the FedEx packages in the drop box. The original drive would take three to four days to reach Kolody: one day for the FedEx to realize the address wasn’t good, one or two days to return it to the hotel, and one day for the hotel to deliver it to the Post’s editorial offices. The package’s confusing chain of consignment while in transit would make it difficult to trace or intercept, and Kolody’s name would not be in any FedEx database. The drive would be the proof; the DVDs were backup, as it were, insurance, in case the original drive was seized by the feds. Media mail wasn’t traceable and would also take at least three to four days to arrive at their destinations.
He went to an ATM and withdrew five hundred dollars, wrapped it well, and placed it in another FedEx envelope, this time addressing it directly to Kolody. He included a simple note:
THIS WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU WILL SOON RECEIVE.
That would guarantee his attention. In four days the truth would be on the front page of the Washington Post and the world would finally know what was going on.
He hoped to God it wouldn’t be too late.
He walked back to his car after mailing the envelope. The parking lot was bathed in an eerie yellowish green light from the Moon. Ford paused a moment to look at the evolving spectacle. The jet of material had started to go into orbit around the Moon, curving into a scimitarlike shape. The entire Moon was now surrounded by a bright, diffuse halo. Even as he watched, swift dark clouds passed over the Moon, one after another, drawing shadows over the world. The air was heavy. A bolt of lightning cut the distant sky, the distant rumble coming half a minute later, the air smelling of humidity and ozone. A fast-moving summer storm was bearing down.
Back at his car, Ford checked the new hard drive and found the enamel dry. Taking out the Magic Marker, he block-printed the same information that had been on the original drive:
#785A56H6T 160Tb
CLASSIFIED: DO NOT DUPLICATE
Property of NPF
California Institute of Technology
National Aeronautics and Space Administration
Placing it in his briefcase, he headed back for the interstate, bound for the airport and Washington.
74
In desperation, Abbey threw herself sideways and kicked out at the man’s shin, striking it hard with her heel as the gun went off—and she saw simultaneously a figure leap up behind the man, clutching a rock. Jackie. The bullet richocheted off a stone next to her ear, the roar booming into the night. Even before the sound had echoed away, a wild shriek split the air and Jackie swung her arm around with the rock in her fist, whacking the man on the temple just as the second shot went off, karang! The killer staggered back, holding his head with one hand, trying to aim with the other. Karang! The pistol went off again, wildly, as he caught his foot and fell back among the rocks.
With the screech of a banshee Jackie fell on him while Abbey seized her own rock and lunged at him, but he was fast and strong and threw Jackie off him, lurching back to his feet, spinning on Jackie and raising his gun, but as he was bringing his hand up to shoot, Abbey hit him with the rock in the back of the head, knocking him forward to his knees. He roared unintelligibly, still clutching the gun, reared back up, and aimed again at Jackie, who was fishing around for another rock.
“Jackie!” Abbey lunged at Jackie and yanked her over as the pistol went off again, the round snicking off a nearby rock, spraying them with chips. Still on his knees, the killer began to take more careful aim with both hands, blood streaming down his face. “I’ll kill you!” he roared, steadying his wobbling arms.
“Run! To the dinghy!”
They ran down the cobbled beach toward the skiff, the gun thundering behind them, kicking up a groove in the beach in front of them. Abbey seized the rope and hauled the boat down the shingle, Jackie pushing from behind. They ran it into the water and jumped in, Abbey grabbing the oars and slamming them into the oarlocks.
The figure of the killer appeared on the beach, staggering like a drunk and aiming the gun. A little red dot danced and flashed around them.
“Down!”
The crash of the shot rolled across the water, and splinters of wood blasted up from the gunwale.
Another shot smacked the water next to them, covering them with spray. Abbey pulled the oars as hard as she could, the boat surging through the smooth ocean. Darkness suddenly fell as the clouds rolled over the bizarre Moon. The current was with them, streaming past the island, carrying them toward the cove where they’d moored the boat. More shots came from the shore, the great hollow boom of the gun rolling across the water like thunder. Gouts of water kicked up on either side and a round took a chunk out of the stern. Still she rowed. Jackie huddled in the bottom of the boat, covering her head and
swearing loudly with each shot.
The Marea II lay about a hundred yards offshore and the incoming tidal currents pushed them toward the boat. Another pair of shots boomed over the water, striking on either side of the dinghy.
She could see the killer running along the shore, keeping as close to them as he could. He took up a prone position on the rocks opposite the anchored boat, resting his gun barrel in front of him. He seemed to have recovered from the blows to his head. Abbey came up alongside the starboard side of Marea II, using the boat as cover, out of the line of fire. She scrambled on board, reaching around to grab Jackie. She heard a series of measured shots and one of the windows of the Marea II blew out.
“He’s shooting at the boat!” Jackie screamed, falling back into the dinghy. Abbey grabbed her collar and dragged her up and over the gunwale. Another window blew out, scattering chips of glass over the deck.
“Stay down!” Abbey crawled along the cockpit and into the pilothouse, Jackie following. Grabbing a knife from the toolbox, she shoved it in Jackie’s hands. “Be ready to run forward and cut the anchor rope—not now, but when I give the word.”
Karang! A round smacked through the forepeak.
Abbey switched on the battery power, and, staying low, reached up and turned the key on the engine panel. It roared to life. Thank God.
Karang! Karang!
She gunned the engine, the boat straining forward against the anchor rode. For a moment Abbey thought it wasn’t going to work, but she goosed the throttle and felt the anchor pull free. The boat surged forward, dragging the anchor along the bottom. If only she could get away, into deep water, they could deal with the anchor later.
But the boat only managed to go another hundred feet before the anchor fetched up hard on a rock and the boat swung around by the bow, the engine straining. They were still in range. Karang! Karang! came the shots, punching a pair of holes in the upper hull.
“Now! Cut the anchor!”
Jackie sprinted forward and, keeping low, using the pilothouse as cover, crawled up to the bow and sawed through the rope. The boat lurched forward and Abbey slammed the throttle to the console, eyes glued to the chartplotter, trying to keep the boat within the narrow channels among the islands. In a moment they were out of range and a few minutes later they passed the end of Little Green, swung around it, and headed down the winding channels for the open ocean.
Abbey throttled down and sagged against the wheel, suddenly feeling dizzy.
“Oh my God,” said Jackie, holding her head. “Oh my God.” Her face was bleeding from flying glass.
“Come here.” Abbey wiped the blood off her face with a paper towel. “Hold still. You’re hyperventilating.”
Jackie made a visible effort to get her heart and breathing under control.
“Man, Jackie, that was some scream you let loose back there. I’ll never call you a wimp again.”
Jackie’s shaking began to subside. “I was mad,” she said.
“You’re not kidding.” Abbey wiped the blood off her own face and steadied herself, her hands firmly on the wheel. She shifted her attention to the chartplotter, thinking of the best way to get into port. “Let’s go straight to Owls Head,” Abbey said. “Get the hell out of here and call the cops.”
“You can call the cops right now,” Jackie said, turning on the VHF. They waited for it to warm up. The boat swung north in the channel and, coming around a protected island, entered open water at the southern end of Penobscot Bay. A powerful swell shuddered the boat and Abbey was surprised to see the very heavy seas running out of the east, the kind of deep rolling swell that preceded a major storm. It was dark; she glanced up and realized the Moon had been obscured for some time. The wind was rising steadily and lightning flickered along the sea horizon.
She raised the mike, turned the VHF to channel 16, pressed the transmit button, and made an emergency broadcast to the Coast Guard.
75
From his shooting perch behind a boulder, Harry Burr watched the boat disappear among the islands. He shoved the gun into his belt and leaned on the rock, his head pounding. He could feel the blood still trickling down from his ear and scalp. Feeling the growing lump on the side of his head, an ungovernable rage took hold, so powerful it caused stars to pop up in his field of vision. Two bitches had fucked up everything, smacked him on the head, taken his dinghy. They saw him and they could identify him. The stars swarmed about and he felt the almost physical pressure of anger behind his forehead, a humming sound, like a cloud of bees trying to escape.
It was him or them. If he didn’t catch up to them and kill them, he would go down. It was as simple as that. If they got to shore, he’d be finished.
He ejected the empty magazine from his piece and reloaded it with loose rounds he carried in his pocket, smacking it back into place. He had very little time. But all was not lost. He still had the other dinghy and a more seaworthy boat—along with an ace in the hole: the father.
Ignoring the pounding in his head, Burr jogged down the strand and into the woods. He pulled the dinghy out of the bushes, retrieved the hidden oars, tossed them in, and dragged the skiff down the beach. Shoving off, he rowed toward where he’d anchored the Halcyon. The Halcyon was not a fast boat but he guessed it would be faster than the Marea II, which was, after all, just a fishing boat, not a yacht.
He pulled with the current, and as he did so, he noticed how dark it had become and how much the wind had risen. Even in the protected waters of the islands, whitecaps were forming, the sound of the wind moaning in the spruce trees. He could hear the distant thunder of surf on the windward islands, a mile off.
He crossed the channel and came around the edge of the adjacent island, the Halcyon coming into view. He could see the dark form of the fisherman, both hands shackled tightly to the stern rail.
He bumped up against the gunwale and climbed aboard, cleating off the dinghy. “Look sharp, Straw, we got business to take care of.”
“You touch my daughter and I’ll kill you,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll search you out—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He went straight to the VHF radio, turned it on to channel 16. If there was one thing he had to do, it was stop the girl from calling the Coast Guard.
76
When Abbey finished making the identification call and released the transmit button, instantly a hoarse voice came on. “Abbey? There you are!”
It was the killer’s voice. He must have gotten back to his boat and had been monitoring the emergency channel.
“You bastard, you’re toast,” she began.
“Ah, ah! Don’t use bad language on an official government frequency, where your father can hear it.”
“My—what?”
“Your father. He’s here on the boat and we’re having such a good time together.”
Abbey was struck speechless for a moment. The wind shook the pilothouse and a sudden hard rain slapped the windows. A flash of lightning split the air above, followed by the crackle of thunder.
“I repeat: your father, Mr. George Straw, is here on the boat with me,” he said smoothly. “Switch to channel seventy-two and we’ll chat.” Channel 72, Abbey knew, was an obscure noncommercial frequency that nobody used.
Before she could respond, the radio hissed. “This is Coast Guard Station Rockland responding—”
Abbey cut off the dispatcher, and dialed in 72.
“Much better,” came the voice. “Want to say hi to Dad?”
Abbey felt physically sick. It had to be a lie. She heard a muffled sound, a curse, the sound of a blow. “Talk to her.” Another thud.
“Stop it!” Abbey screamed.
“Abbey,” came her father’s distorted voice. “Stay away. Just get the hell into port and go straight to the police—”
Another heavy blow, a grunt.
“Stop it, you bastard!”
The killer’s voice came back on. “Get back on sixteen and call off the Coast Guard. Now. Or he’s fish food.”
Jackie suddenly gripped the wheel, giving the throttle some fuel, and the boat yawed back around and just barely met the next wave on the starboard quarter. “I’ll take the helm. You deal with him.”
Abbey nodded dumbly. The wind was picking up by the second, lashing the ocean’s heaving surface into honeycombs of foam.
Back on channel 72 the killer gave a low laugh and then said, “Hello? Anybody home?”
“Please don’t hurt—”
Another smack, a groan. “What’s your position?”
“Penobscot Bay.”
“Listen carefully, here’s the plan. Give me your GPS coordinates. I’m coming to you and I’ll give you your father back.”
“What do you want?”
“Just a promise that you’ll forget all about this. Okay?”
“Abbey!” came a faint cry, “don’t listen—”
Another thud.
“No, please! Don’t hurt him!”
“Abbey,” came the calm voice of the killer. “Keep in mind we’re on an open channel. Understand? I’m coming to you. There won’t be any problems if you follow my instructions.”
Abbey tried to breathe through an involuntary spasm in her throat. After a moment she said, “I understand.”