Hard Wired

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  Dent shook his head.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “It’s not my problem,” he said. “I’m done with eTech and the people who develop it. In fact, you would be safer the farther away from eTech as you can get. If word of you and your ability got out, who knows how many more people would be after you.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but he ran over her with more of his logic.

  “It’s bad enough that we had to leave California the way we did. I no longer have my contacts, no longer have access to weapons, and a majority of my old bank accounts have been frozen. My face was plastered on the news stations for kidnapping you. And I am likely on the top of many government agencies lists right now for what I did to get you free.”

  He had a point. But she wasn’t giving up that easy.

  She smiled and said, “Wow, Dent. It sounds like you actually care for my well-being. How sweet. How positively warm and gushy.”

  He let his lips curl up in what she knew he thought was a smile. “I simply don’t like people firing at me,” he said. “I just keep you around to cook.”

  Another joke? Kasumi laughed. Maybe she was rubbing off on the guy after all.

  And then it hit her. “I know why I got the message and you didn’t,” she smugly announced.

  “Why?”

  “Because if you got the message you’d just ignore it, like you’re trying to do right now.” She pointed an accusatory finger at him and said, “I bet you wouldn’t have even told me if you got the message, huh? Probably go all Mister Robo-man and ignore it because it had nothing to do with you. You wouldn’t care.”

  “So how does the message being sent to you factor in?”

  She noted he didn’t deny her accusations.

  “Because, since I actually have what is known as a heart, I would react differently to the message. I can’t sit here knowing people could be getting killed out there over eTech, or whatever’s going on out there. Not like you. And since I got the message, I’m going to pester you into taking us to Utah and figuring out how we can help.”

  “Fifth—”

  “No, Dent. Listen here. I’ve got some logic for you. What are the chances that if we don’t go, I’ll keep bugging and bugging you about it?”

  “Fairly high,” he admitted.

  “And what are the chances that I can drive even someone like you crazy if I put my mind to it?”

  A pause. “Extremely high.”

  “So, the chances we’re eventually going to pack up and go …?”

  “Fine. Enough logic from you. You’ve proven your point.”

  “Yes!” She celebrated and raised her hand for a high-five. He looked to her hand and did what he was trained to do and high-fived her back. But ….

  She was ecstatic that she had convinced him to check this thing out, but she could tell that something was wrong with him. Even for being his stoic self, she could tell something was bothering him.

  “What is it?” she asked in all seriousness.

  He looked over her head, out into the distance beyond the walls of the house. “This Otto. If it is how you say it is, then he sent the message to you so you could convince me to go.”

  “Which I did.”

  “As expected.”

  She tilted her head to the side, not following his train of thought.

  “Whoever Otto is, he sent the message knowing how this scenario would play out.” His eyes came back to the present and settled on her.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “That means Otto knows us, Fifth. Not knows of us, but somehow knows us. He seems to know us personally, right down to the probabilities of how each of us would react to his messages.”

  Which was not a good thing for people who were on the run.

  The lump in her throat came right back up.

  V

  Straight Drive time from New Jersey to Utah would take approximately thirty-three hours.

  Neither wanted to make this trip via the airways. Dent wouldn’t mind it if he were by himself, but Fifth wasn’t exactly fond of flying. And he wasn’t fond of flying with someone with her talent. They had been in two airplanes together since they had met. Both were on the trip home after Dent had kidnapped the girl. During the first leg of their journey leaving Japan, she had been knocked out by a cocktail of sedatives supplied by Grant Chisholme, his contracted employer at the time. The second flight he wasn’t so lucky and she had been awake for half of the trip.

  With her being afraid of flying, it made for the second half of the flight and the landing an experience he did not want to live through again. Her unease and frantic emotions had carried to the rest of the passengers of the plane, even to the pilots, pushing upon them what she had been feeling. A sure way to come crashing down in a plane was to have someone on board that could influence the pilots and interfere with their performance.

  No, Dent thought, driving was the safer way to travel. Being unable to register fear was one thing. Being stupid was completely another.

  The beginning of the drive was uneventful. After packing a bag for himself, and then forcing Fifth to unpack her three bags and condense all her stuff into one bag, the two headed out early in the morning.

  They were just passing through Pennsylvania when the girl let out a noise, sounding like a horse blowing out against its lips.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  She watched the greenery outside her window, not bothering to turn around, and said, “Nothing. I’m just bored.”

  He looked over, could see her making faces at herself in the reflection of the window. “You could check the map app on your EB,” he suggested.

  Without turning, she lifted a hand, pointed toward the windshield. “Drive. That way.”

  Well, he tried. He focused on the freeway, hands at nine and three on the steering wheel.

  It wasn’t long before Fifth made another noise, now something like a strangled mouse, and Dent figured he was supposed to say something.

  “You sound like a mouse.”

  “I feel like one that’s been trapped.”

  “Want me to pull over? Stretch your legs?”

  She sighed. “No.” Then, “Hey, Dent. How about you teach me to drive?”

  “You’re underage.”

  “So.”

  “It’s against the law.”

  She twisted in her seat so she was facing him. “You contract out to kill people.”

  “Yes.”

  “Last I checked, underage driving was a bit more favorable than what you do.”

  She had a point, but there was no need to tell her so. Knowing her, it would only lead to her pestering him about letting her do things that were less illegal than doing what he did for a living. And that would be a long list.

  “I do only what I have to, Fifth.”

  “You have to give in one day and teach me to drive,” she countered. “Can’t have you driving me around forever.”

  “Two hours in the car with you tells me that I’d have to agree.”

  She frowned, then snapped, “Hey! I think that was meant to hurt my feelings.” The corners of her lips curled up, though, indicating that her feelings were not really hurt.

  “Feelings?” he asked, trying to make his voice even, flat. “What are those again?”

  The Escalade swerved as he took a hit on his arm. Getting the SUV back under control, he frowned over at her — at least, he hoped what he attempted was a frown — hoping she got his meaning.

  She waved an apology his way and then settled back into her seat.

  The silence didn’t last long, so he turned on the radio, and let her play with the stations. She tended to enjoy about forty-five seconds of each song she heard before switching to another station. He preferred the news stations, but from past experiences, putting up with the constant changing of stations was better than listening to her complain — and rather vocally — that she hated listening to the news. Unfortunately, in a moving veh
icle there was nowhere to get away from Fifth when she — and he had to believe it was intentional — decided to see how loud she could talk.

  “We ever going back to California?” she asked during a lull in the music.

  “Possibly.”

  “I kind of liked it there.”

  “You were kidnapped, shot at, kidnapped again, drugged, and then Chisholme threatened to keep you locked up to study you, to find out what makes you able to do what you do.”

  She shrugged. “Eh. The weather was nice, though.”

  He risked a glance over at her, to see if that was one of her jokes, but her face was flat, no indication of what she was feeling.

  “Maybe one day we’ll go back,” he said. “But it won’t be until we find a way to keep Chisholme from getting to you.”

  “And my mother,” she added in a tone just above a whisper.

  “Your mother is in Japan, Chisholme is in California. Of the two, only Chisholme presents an immediate problem.” He signaled, changed lanes, headed for the next interchange.

  “But my mother has people working for her here in the States.”

  “And we haven’t seen or heard from them in months.”

  She started playing with the radio again, determined to push every button twice in a single minute. She asked, “What about Noman?”

  Dent looked over at her, saw that she was intent on the radio, but he could see her eyes flick his way. This “Noman” was some thing that she had been going on about for the past three months. She claimed it was some spy following her around, waiting for the chance to sneak up on her, throw a pillowcase over her head, and then run off with her. For what purpose? he had asked her. Of course, her answers had been more convoluted than any Hollywood exec could ever imagine to put in ten movies combined.

  Along with everything else the girl had going on, an active and vivid imagination had to be at the top of the list. Well, it would be just below her unique ability to tamper with people’s emotions. But as far as Dent was concerned, the imagination aspect was more of a challenge to him personally.

  “Fifth …,” he started.

  “No, Dent. He’s real. I can sometimes sense him near me, just off to the side or somewhere behind me.” She crossed her arms and set her lips. It was her way of daring him to contradict her.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t sense him.”

  “That’s why we call him the Noman!”

  “You.”

  “What?”

  “You call him the Noman.”

  She threw her hands up. “You’re not getting the point. Geesh!” She settled back into her seat. “The fact that I can’t sense him makes me able to sense him.”

  Dent had no clue how to respond. He went with a simple, “Uh-huh.”

  “Dammit, Dent.”

  “Language,” he warned.

  She growled. Literally growled.

  He looked over.

  “Noman is out there, Dent. Trust me.”

  “Why hasn’t he done anything?”

  She tapped her lower lip. “Good point. I’m still trying to figure that one out. I bet he’s scared you’ll kick his ass—,” she coughed quickly, cleared her throat, “—butt. He’s afraid you’ll kick his butt.”

  It was probably a good thing the girl had so much confidence in his abilities to keep her protected, but on the other hand it was a bad thing as well, as the thing she had him protecting her from likely didn’t exist. He’d seen it before, what she was going through.

  Some people, especially military personnel, found danger even in places of safety. The two of them had been relatively safe for a few months, and the lack of threat or danger likely resulted in her mind contriving up some danger. He always found it odd that a normal person couldn’t feel safe unless they were supposedly protected from some supposed danger.

  He shrugged. “Well if Noman is out there, we just left him behind. He has no idea where we’re going.”

  “Dent, we have no idea where we’re going.”

  Valid point, but he didn’t tell her. “We’re going to Utah,” he said instead.

  “I know. But if you keep driving like an old lady with a flat tire, we’ll never get there.”

  “I’m driving the posted speed limit.” He inclined his head toward a serendipitous sign as they passed by.

  “Everyone knows that those things are suggested speed limits.”

  “Which,” Dent pointed out, “is why I am driving and you are not.”

  She propped her head on a fist and turned to look out her window. Dent thought he heard her mumble something about “driving” and “crazy.”

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Oh. My. Gosh. Did you know that there are trees out there? How. Very. Fascinating.”

  Her tone, Dent gathered, was not exactly fascinated.

  Hands at nine and three, he drove on.

  VI

  Rick Bobseyn stepped out of his Cherokee onto Leffingwell Lane. The sun wasn’t too intense and so, closing the car door, he opted to throw his sunglasses through the open window onto the passenger seat. He adjusted his thin leather jacket, a relic from the 1980s that, along with the dark brown polo, his weathered blue jeans, and brown cowboy boots, had come to be his official police uniform since he’d become sheriff of Graftsprings, Utah in the late 1990s.

  He was forty-six, looked thirty-six in the face, and had the narrow body of a twenty-six year old. He didn’t watch what he ate — didn’t skimp on fried foods or beer — nor was he one of those guys that had a “gym” in his house. He’d been a cop practically his whole life, and Graftsprings was small enough to manage with only one sheriff — meaning he was on the clock twenty-four-seven. No need to work out when he spent his days patrolling his city, walking the fields keeping teenagers where they we supposed to be, pacing the streets keeping the older residents honest, and occasionally rounding up a lost hiker or two during the season.

  Which is why the occurrences of the past six months or so had been so draining on him. He’d give anything to be chasing down a few pot-smoking, underage-drinking kids right about now. Hell, he’d even take a call from Ms. Mayner right about now, asking him to get her cat out of one of the dozens of trees on her lot, considering the woman hasn’t had a cat in ten years and yet — about once a month — calls him out to her place to help her search for Fluffy.

  No, right now anything would be better than taking another call regarding yet another death in his town. And, casting his eyes to the wavering asphalt in the street, there was no doubt in his mind that this was going to be one of those calls. For, almost like a neon sign at an all-night café, the bloody shoeprints that jaywalked their way backwards across the street and up onto the sidewalk on the other side were all he needed to see.

  One of the neighbors down the street had called it in. Bobseyn’s two-man and two-woman staff was light this month. Two were on vacation — together — and Timson was down south checking out a smalltime drug ring that was setting its hooks in the kids of Graftsprings. That left Bobseyn to contain the scene. And a scene he knew it would be. Just like the others.

  Staying just to the left of the bloody shoeprints, Bobseyn tracked them across the street, onto the sidewalk, and then on down the block. He didn’t need to follow them directly, he knew where they led — or in this case, where they came from — but he wanted to follow them, to get a better feel for the assailant and, honestly, because he was delaying reaching the end, the origination of the prints.

  He hit the walkway where the prints did a ninety and headed up to the house. He stopped, pulled his gaze up. The house looked empty. It radiated empty. The paint was faded, grass needed tending, and the porch swing lazed back and forth, a ghost of its owner enjoying the afternoon breeze. The front door was slightly ajar.

  He worked his way up, careful of the shoeprints, knuckled the door open with a gloved hand and made his way into the house. Almost instantly, he could smell it. The blood. Metallic and dry — if anythin
g could really be defined as smelling dry. The bloody steps led straight ahead, into the living room, but he held off on that. He wanted to take in the entire scene.

  To his right, just off the entryway, was a dining table big enough to seat six with elbow room to spare. Some opened mail sat at the head of the table, along with an opened laptop. Without stepping closer, he knew the laptop was off, battery probably dead. Becky was no doubt in the middle of sifting through her physical mail as well as digital when the assailant came a’calling. Why he figured this to be a fact? People normally closed their laptops when they were done using them. Don’t know why — he did it, everyone he knew did it — but people just did. Guess it was like closing a book when you’re done reading for the night.

  He looked to the small table at his right against the short entryway wall. Technical term for such a table, he had no clue, but he called tables like these “key tables.” It’s the type of table or piece of furniture where you came home, opened your door, and, without looking, tossed keys and wallet to the side, maybe into a bowl just like Becky had right atop hers. He looked into the bowl. House keys, car keys, another set of keys, two gold woman’s watches, and one … two … three diamond rings that he could see without moving the contents about.

  Steeling himself, he left the mundane and walked into the living room, the actual scene of the crime. As he stepped forward, he couldn’t avoid stepping on the dried blood that had soaked into the beige carpet. It cracked and crunched underfoot like a light dusting of frozen-over morning snow. His eyes strayed to the body, the source of the blood, but he forced himself to take in the entire scene before going there.

  There was a knee-high coffee table surrounded on two sides by a wraparound couch. Four cups, two at the far end, two on his left, sat atop the coffee table along with four plates and a freshly baked cake in the center of the table. Without stepping closer, for he would have to step over Becky’s body to do so, he drew his initial assessment.