SUDDENLY ALTERED BEHAVIOR
Watching the Quantico streets go by, Kim wondered if he was handling this new “partnership” correctly. Next to him in the driver’s seat Will was also gazing out at the town, following the directions they had been given by phone. It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and the two of them had spent the whole day together on the lollipop case.
Kim wasn’t sure if he should take this opportunity to have another conversation with Will. He knew what he would say: he wanted to apologize for being so aggressive the night before. It was my first day as a “real” agent, he would tell Will. I’m sorry I got in your face. It’s easy to criticize what someone else is doing—especially if you’ve never done it yourself.
But Kim hadn’t said a word.
There was a specific reason for this. From the moment he and Will had met up at the Quantico courthouse that morning, Kim instantly knew that something had happened. Will had changed. To Kim, the difference between Will’s behavior the night before in the dorms and today as they busied themselves with the case was as vivid as black and white. Will was in a completely different mood.
He was whistling to himself at breakfast in the cafeteria. He laughed too much at some of the trainees’ jokes at the table, but then at other times he seemed to be off in some kind of private reverie, not listening to the people around him at all. Kim caught him smiling for no reason at least once.
And—the most peculiar thing—each time the two of them got anywhere near a computer connected to the Internet, Will seemed to linger. It was so subtle that Kim barely noticed it, but three times Will had craned his neck, slowing down and dragging his feet when he saw someone using a Web browser. Kim almost expected him to say, Hang on one second, Kim—I know we’re investigating a serial killer, but I have this sudden urge to go shop for books on Amazon.
Strange.
The funny thing was that Will’s suddenly altered behavior was recognizable. It reminded him of the way that Will used to get around Gaia Moore. Kim once told Catherine Sanders that he knew Gaia and Will liked each other before either of them knew it—the spark that had passed between them was so blindingly obvious to Kim on those first few days as trainees that he found it endlessly amusing to watch them earnestly pretend they didn’t like each other.
And now Will was back in that same state of mind. If Kim didn’t know better, he would have guessed that Will and Gaia were in contact with each other—that they had talked on the phone or had some kind of conversation.
And of course, that was impossible. It was obvious that Will’s phone, mail (both paper and electronic), and all other communication were being monitored. Kim assumed that his was, too. And they both had firm standing orders from Special Agent Malloy to report any attempts by Gaia to contact either of them.
So there was no way Will and Gaia were talking.
Yet Kim felt sure he was missing something. Will was working very, very hard all day on the case. It was almost like he wanted to get it all done early so that he could go do something else. It reminded him of a kid hurrying home after school to catch a favorite TV program.
But he couldn’t imagine what else Will needed to do besides catch the lollipop killer. And he wasn’t about to ask. But Kim had decided to keep his eyes open when around Will and see what he could figure out on his own.
“Here it is,” Will said, pointing out the windshield at a drab, two-story office building. “Ready, partner?”
“Sure,” Kim said, adjusting his badge and gun yet again. It was going to take him a while to get used to walking around among actual citizens while wearing a firearm. Will seemed to have taken to it like a natural, but for Kim it still felt a little bit like playing cowboys and Indians. He got his notebook and pen together as Will eased into a parking spot in front of their destination. “You go first—I’ll follow.”
“No, not today,” Will said, looking over. “Listen, I’m sorry again about what happened yesterday. Why don’t you be primary today? I’ll follow your lead. Let’s see how that goes.”
Kim looked back at Will. He couldn’t read his face at all. But something’s up, he thought again. He’s not even thinking about me right now. His mind’s a million miles away somewhere.
As they slammed the car doors and dashed up the steps and into the building, various Quantico passersby looked at them curiously. Kim kept a blank facial expression, trying to look casual as Will checked the building’s directory.
“Here it is,” Will said, pointing. “SecondChanceVA.com—on the second floor.”
Vaulting up the stairs, Will made an exaggerated show of holding the doors for Kim when they passed the pebbled-glass sign that read SECOND CHANCE and, below that, Virginia’s Best Online Singles Service.
NOTHING TO HIDE
They entered the office. It was a small, carpeted waiting room with a few upholstered chairs and couches where five or ten young men and women sat reading magazines or filling out forms on clipboards and generally pretending that they didn’t see one another. There was a window with a counter behind it, like in a drugstore, where two or three staff people stood around, dealing with paperwork.
These are the “singles,” Will realized, looking at the chairs’ occupants. He didn’t know how much of SecondChance’s business came from the Web site and how much from people walking in; it was one of the things that they needed to find out.
The singles in the room were mostly divorcees, Kim figured, based on the Web site’s statistical projections. As Will and Kim came through the room in their suits and ties, the singles glanced up at them and quickly away. Lonely people, Kim thought. It was very obvious. He could tell from the naked openness of their faces, from the neediness in their eyes that they revealed and then immediately hid from view.
Will was leaning on the counter, smiling back at Kim as he waited for him to catch up. He’s being a model of courtesy, Kim realized—he wants to make up for yesterday.
“Excuse me,” Kim said to the man behind the counter. He looked about forty and had neatly combed hair and a small mustache. He wore a sweater-vest and a wool tie. “My name’s Kim Lau and this is Will Taylor—we’re federal investigators.” Kim showed his badge, smiling gently at the man. “Have you got a moment?”
“Yes, Mr. Lau. What can I do for you?” The man smiled back, clasping his hands behind him.
Nothing to hide, Kim noted.
“We’re here to take a look at your records, if it’s not too much trouble,” Kim went on. “In particular”—he lowered his voice, looking behind himself before continuing—“the information that your customers provide when they sign up for your service. I understand that you collect data from your customers whether they show up in person or fill out the form on your Web site.”
“Yes,” the man said agreeably. “Yes, that’s quite true, Mr. Kim. But unfortunately all of that information is private. You must understand that we keep our clients’ personal details in the strictest confidence. A business like this can’t survive if it can’t make secrecy an absolute guarantee.”
Will stepped forward, holding up a sheaf of papers. “Sir, this is a subpoena issued in superior court,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “Please feel free to read it at your leisure, but I can spare you the trouble. It says that you’re required by state law to hand over any and all records that we ask for concerning your clients.”
“But I don’t understand,” the man said, alarmed. “Why? What’s the reason for—”
“This is a homicide investigation, I’m afraid, sir,” Kim told him. He had lowered his voice even more, but unfortunately it made no difference. Everyone in the room was pretending to do something else but clearly straining to hear what they were talking about.
This is going to be all over town, Kim thought dismally. We should have interviewed him in private. Too late—my fault.
“All right.” The man sighed, looking dismally at the court order. “What do you need to see?”
“Have you got a list of your current customers?” Will asked. “Let’s start there.”
“I know you!” said a female voice.
Kim was surprised. He looked over and saw a young woman farther back behind the counter, standing with a stack of file folders. She was looking right at Will.
“I’m afraid not, ma’am,” Will said, smiling brightly. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Oh—I’m sorry,” the woman said, flushing as she turned awkwardly away. “I guess not. You just looked so familiar.”
She’s flirting, Kim thought distractedly. I guess if you don’t know how to do it any better than that, you end up working in a place like this.
“Here you go,” the man with the mustache announced, hefting a large loose-leaf volume onto the counter. It was the size of a telephone book. “These are the female clients—we keep them as two separate lists.”
Will opened the book and started flipping through it. Leaning over his shoulder, Kim could see printed-out lists of names, dozens and dozens of them, each with an identifying computer code. The list was alphabetical, so Will could quickly narrow his search, flipping pages looking for Terri Barker.
Once we get her ID number, Kim realized, we can find out what other dates she went on. And maybe one of them is the killer.
Now that they were actually investigating it, Kim suddenly felt like this was a very slim lead. But it was the only thing either of them had been able to think of.
“Here we go,” Will said, stabbing at a name with his forefinger. Kim looked:
BARKER TERRI F-48673869284
“Let’s make a note of that number,” Will said, clicking his pen and writing it down. The man with the mustache stood waiting, still looking uncomfortable.
Look at all these people, Kim thought, grabbing the bound volume before it slipped shut. He could see hundreds—maybe thousands—of single women, all somewhere in the state of Virginia and all dealing with this one office, trying to find true love. It was sad and hopeful at the same time, Kim thought, thumbing the book. People seemed willing to go through all kinds of—
Suddenly Kim dropped the thought completely. He flipped the book back a few pages, wondering if he’d actually seen what he thought he’d seen. And he was right. There it was:
HALLIDAY LAUREL F-4550112343454
“Holy—” Kim grabbed Will’s shoulder, shaking it, and pointed down at the book. “Will, look at this,” he said breathlessly.
“Well, if that don’t beat all—” Will took the book, flipping back toward the beginning. “Let’s see if another one’s here.”
“K,” Kim said. He realized he wasn’t breathing, and he forced himself to take a deep gulp of air. “Look in the K’s …”
Will was nodding. He flipped the book forward, scanning the names, until he found what they were looking for:
KNIGHT ANN F 1121308855999
Kim and Will looked at each other. Kim could see the surprise in Will’s eyes.
They all came here, Kim thought dazedly. All three of the victims.
The realization bowled him over. He was amazed at the sensation of having discovered a clue—a real clue—and having it pay off. In that instant he almost felt like he was drunk, but at the same time he felt absolutely alert and wide awake.
“Sir,” Kim said, trying to keep his voice level as he turned back to the man with the mustache and the sweater vest, “we’re going to have to ask you for your complete client database.”
“If you can give it to us on a computer disk,” Will added politely, “we’d sure appreciate it.”
The man nodded gravely. “I suppose I can do that,” he allowed, nodding at them and moving off toward the SecondChance.com back office.
“You haven’t cracked it yet, son,” Will told Kim, with that same twinkle in his eye, that misplaced euphoria, that Kim had been noticing all day. “Don’t get a swelled head or anything.”
“No,” Kim agreed. “I haven’t cracked it. But suddenly it looks crackable, doesn’t it?”
“We’ll see,” Will said, watching as the man headed back toward them, holding out a computer disk. “We’ll see.”
WALKING INTO AN ANCIENT TOMB
Too slow, Gaia reprimanded herself as she drove. Taking too long.
It was one-thirty in the afternoon, and any hope of getting to Collingswood before two was fading from her mind. The problem was that she couldn’t risk getting pulled over for speeding. She could flash a badge, sure—but after the events at the motel and the roadside rest area, she had no assurance that it would work. She’d avoided getting apprehended—just barely managed to avoid it—twice today. Gaia didn’t have much faith in what might happen a third time.
Even crossing the state line into Pennsylvania, Gaia had been concerned. It was entirely possible that a priority all-points bulletin was out on her. As she drove through the toll booth, smiling at the man who took her ticket, Gaia was half expecting the man to slap an alarm button and for cop cars to converge on her, sirens blaring.
And if that happens, she had thought behind her smile, then I’ll have to ram the barrier and outflank them—and if it means a high-speed chase, then it means a high-speed chase.
But Gaia had been tremendously relieved when the tollbooth operator had smiled back and waved her through. It was amazing that the FBI hadn’t mobilized to keep her from leaving Maryland, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. And now, driving northeast as the afternoon sky deepened into a rich, cloudless blue, she was forcing herself to stay within the speed limit. Because she really didn’t want this trip to end in a local jail cell. That wasn’t part of her plan at all.
The land was changing again as Gaia followed the Delaware River, which was just a mile or so out of view behind the rolling hills that she could see out the Altima’s passenger window. She had stopped just once, quickly, to fill the gas tank and to finally pry open the laptop and take a good look at the Web site that Catherine’s email had pointed to:
Welcome to the Home Page of the COLLINGSWOOD MUNICIPAL PUMPING STATION Built in 1921, the Collingswood, PA, Municipal Pumping Station is a landmark example in the history of American hydroelectric power generation. This beautiful monument is one of the five oldest pumping stations in continuous operation in the continental United States. Click here for a full history of this American institution.
There was more. Gaia had taken a moment glancing over the rest of the Web page’s text and the big, murky photograph that showed the building’s low, impressive silhouette. But really the only part she cared about was the directions of how to get there. She had no idea what Catherine was doing in such a place or what it meant, but Gaia figured that the best way to find out was to just go there as fast as she could.
Because that’s what Catherine wanted me to do, Gaia told herself firmly. That’s why she sent the unfinished e-mail—because she knew I’d figure that out.
And Gaia wasn’t about to let Catherine down.
Finally, at two-ten in the afternoon, as the sun was just beginning to move toward the western horizon, Gaia began seeing signs for Collingswood. She had copied the Web page’s driving directions onto a sheet of paper, but it turned out not to be necessary: the pumping station was visible almost immediately, a silhouette against the hills, looming impressively over the town like a castle or a cathedral. The Web site wasn’t exaggerating: the building was very impressive.
Leaving the interstate, Gaia drove through Collingswood’s narrow, shaded streets, finding her way by sight—the pumping station was visible through most of the town. As she got closer, Gaia realized the building was much larger than it looked from a distance or from the picture on the Web site. It was a mammoth granite-and-concrete structure, low and wide, with enormous, old-fashioned curved windows cut deep into its front surface, almost like eyes in a face. As Gaia got nearer, she could hear the roar of the river getting louder and louder. She drove uphill, rising higher and higher over the town, seeing how the Delaware River’s tributaries flowed through the town and over the dams and conduits that ran beneath the pumping station. Even from this distance Gaia could hear the throbbing and humming of the pumping station’s machinery.
But why bring Catherine here? Gaia thought as she drove the Altima along the chain-link fence that flanked the pumping station’s empty parking lot. What possible reason could Socorro or anyone else—political activists or terrorists, whatever they are—have be in a place like this?
Gaia slowed the car down as she approached the gate in the middle of the fence. There was a small stone guardhouse that looked like it was as old and well built as the pumping station itself. An elderly guard in a drab uniform sat inside beneath a yellow lightbulb, reading a newspaper.
Not particularly high security, Gaia thought, stopping the car just out of view and getting out. The air had grown cooler as she’d moved northeast, coming closer to the river. She got out her jacket and pulled it on, once again covering the shoulder holster. Locking the car, Gaia moved down into the shrubbery at the edge of the road, approaching the gate.
Crouching down and moving quietly, she sneaked past the guardhouse, glancing up at the white-haired guard as she passed. So far as Gaia could tell, he didn’t have the slightest idea that someone had gotten right past him. He lazily turned a page in his newspaper, totally unconcerned.
Once past the guardhouse, Gaia picked up her pace, moving across the nearly empty parking lot toward the enormous, looming face of the pumping station. She could feel the vibration through her shoes as she walked, and the closer she got, the louder the rhythmic throbbing and pumping noises got. The station, with its huge, steel-framed half-circle windows, did look like a face, an angry face staring down at her as she approached.
The building had a set of ornate, carved double doors. There was nobody around, and the doors were padlocked shut. The words Collingswood Municipal Pumping Station were spelled in carved letters over the door. Below that, another carving was inscribed 1921. A brass plaque bolted to the wall read Official Registry of the American Landmark Commission, 1952.
Great—but how do I get in?
She was standing there, confused, for about a minute before she saw a small utility entrance to one side. It was so small and plain that she nearly missed it. Walking over, Gaia saw there was a small window set into the door. The window had been smashed, creating an opening large enough for someone to get their arm through.
There was broken glass on the ground near the door.
This is recent, Gaia realized. Somebody broke in here not too long ago.
Are they still here?
Reaching through the broken window frame, Gaia found the metal lever that opened the door. Swinging it open, she entered the Collingswood Pumping Station.
Inside, it was nearly pitch black—and the rhythmic pumping and throbbing noise was much louder and deeper, vibrating from her shoes through her entire body, so that she could feel it in her teeth. Gaia waited a moment to get used to the darkness, but she couldn’t really. It was like walking into an ancient tomb—there was just a pale glow somewhere straight ahead, reflected from a distant window. The cool, dark air washed gently over her, carrying a faint smell of water and electricity.
A flashlight, Gaia told herself helplessly. Next time bring a flashlight. Can’t you get anything right?
And something else was on her mind, from when she first saw the smashed glass on the ground: Is someone else here?
There was no way to tell. Holding her hands out in front of her, Gaia moved forward into the darkness.
ONE TINY STEP BEHIND HER FRIEND
Walking forward a few paces, Gaia realized it wasn’t so bad. In front of her was a cool, damp stone wall and, feeling its edge as she turned around a corner, suddenly she came into an area that was bright enough for her to see. Gaia looked around, amazed.
The turbines were enormous steel cylinders the size of Greyhound buses, half buried in the vast stone floor upon which she was standing on the edge. The ceiling was far out of view overhead—the only light was weak daylight from the big windows on the building’s front. She could hear the splashing of the river’s water far in the distance as the teeth-vibrating hum of the turbines continued.
Her eyes adjusted a bit more as she saw a row of normal-size doors off to one side. Heading over there, Gaia realized that there were administrative offices behind the doors.
And then she saw something so surprising, so utterly unexpected that she had to blink to make sure she hadn’t imagined it.
Hanging on the doorknob of the leftmost door was a bracelet. She could see it clearly from this far away even in the dim light: a silver band with a turquoise inlay.
Catherine’s bracelet, Gaia realized, amazed again at her friend’s ingenuity. She recognized it immediately; Gaia remembered that it had belonged to Catherine’s mother and that Catherine wore it all the time. She remembered one or two times when Catherine had practically turned their dorm room upside down looking for it.
And here it was, hanging from a doorknob.
It’s a signal to me, Gaia realized. Suddenly she felt choked up again. Catherine was trying to communicate with Gaia.
Gaia, please come help, she remembered.
I won’t let you down, Cathy, Gaia thought, clearing her throat and blinking away the hotness that was gathering in her eyes. I promise.
Lettering on the door Catherine had marked read Municipal Works Technical Records Department. Gaia pocketed Catherine’s bracelet and opened the door.
Behind it was a small room with one other door at the back. There was a low ceiling and no windows. Closing the door she’d come through, Gaia flicked on the overhead lights, looking around. The room was empty except for a large oak worktable, a water cooler, and a desk with an older-looking computer workstation and a large freestanding machine that Gaia didn’t recognize. The computer had been left on, and, Gaia realized, the big machine was on, too—a yellow light on its face was glowing.
Catherine was here, Gaia realized. The humming and throbbing of the pumping station’s machinery was still making Gaia’s body vibrate as she went over and awakened the computer.
After a few baffled moments examining the machine’s unfamiliar desktop, Gaia realized that this computer’s main purpose was as a filing system. Clicking the mouse on various folders, she saw the categories for a tremendously detailed database network—hundreds and hundreds of technical documents, including building blueprints, sewer maps, subway station plans, streetlight power diagrams, water pipeline schematics.
So what do I do now? Gaia’s heart was sinking as she looked through the folders. It was all very technical, and she had no idea where to start looking or even what she was looking for.
Finally, when she was about to give up on the computer in desperation and begin searching the rest of the room, Gaia saw something she hadn’t noticed before—a small icon that was blinking in a corner of the computer’s screen.
Clicking on the icon, Gaia saw a small window open on the screen, with a label that read PRINT QUEUE.
Below that, the window had a list of technical documents, with dates and times next to them. And, Gaia realized excitedly, the most recent document was printed that morning, at eleven fifty-five.
When Catherine sent the e-mail, Gaia remembered. She had gotten it at the Starbucks at one in the afternoon—but the date attached to the e-mail showed that it had been sent at eleven fifty-five. Right when that document were printing.
Exploring the computer’s desktop some more, Gaia realized that the machine’s e-mail program was running; its window had just been minimized down to the bottom of the screen. Looking at the list of sent mail, Gaia fixed her eye on the most recent item:
To: gmoore@fbi_quantico.gov
From: admin@cmps.gov
Date: August 23, 2005, 11:55 EST
Subject: [no subject]
Gaia rubbed her eyes, sighing with released tension. She’d found it: Catherine’s e-mail had been sent right from here—from this exact computer. Once again Gaia was just one tiny step behind her friend. Catherine had sat right here, in this chair, at eleven fifty-five and sent that e-mail.
Leaning back in her chair, gazing around the room, Gaia attempted to visualize the scene. Don’t be afraid to use your imagination, Agent Crane had lectured them all back at Quantico. Sometimes it’s the most powerful weapon you’ve got. If you can visualize events you never saw, then you can find details in them you’d never catch any other way.
So what happened here?
Gaia looked over at the door—the one she’d come in through.
Catherine’s captors had been over there, Gaia imagined. Watching the door. They weren’t pumping station employees—they broke in, too.
The smashed window, Gaia remembered.
So they stood there while Catherine sat here, at eleven fifty-five, and she realized they weren’t watching her, so she decided to send me an e-mail—
While she printed that document, she realized, nearly clapping with triumph as she figured it out. That’s why they brought her here—to steal that document.
Clicking the mouse on the document’s icon, Gaia selected the repeat print command.
There was a pause and then a click and a hum as the machine she hadn’t recognized—the one with the yellow light on its face—started making chugging noises. After twenty seconds of this, a sheet of paper about four feet wide started to inch out of the machine.
It’s a printer that makes big documents, like blueprints and engineering plans. That’s how they store all their stuff—they just keep them in the computer and print the ones they need.
It took six minutes for the massive document, the size of half a bedsheet, to emerge from the big printer. It finally spilled to the ground, and Gaia picked it up, spreading it out on the oak table.
Gaia couldn’t make heads or tails of it at first. It was a very complicated schematic or diagram of something. But it was all Greek to her—
Except, somehow, it wasn’t. Squinting at the page, Gaia realized that there was something familiar about it; some pattern somewhere in the maze of lines and shapes that she’d seen before somewhere. And the computer had printed a single black X in the middle of the diagram. Moving her face close to the page, she suddenly noticed that the horizontal and vertical lines had small labels. Federal … Mifflin … Bella Vista … Cantrell …
Those names sounded familiar. They reminded her of something she’d seen very recently. Sometimes having a photographic memory was a hindrance rather than a help; there was so much information moving through her brain that she could have difficulty realizing what she was remembering. Moving in closer to the strange, rectangle-filled schematic, she saw another label that snapped it into focus.
Liberty Bell.
Now she had it. This was a map of the city of Philadelphia.
But why is that important?
Gaia didn’t know. Furthermore, she didn’t understand what all the lines and rectangles were—or what the black X meant.
Looking again, Gaia realized suddenly that like a buried-treasure spot on a pirate map, the X was marking a particular intersection in the city … Decatur and Main, the two crossing streets were labeled.
That was interesting. Of course, she still had to figure out what—
A clanking noise somewhere in the distance.
The pumping machinery?
That elderly guard, making his rounds?
Either way, the message was the same: time to leave. Rolling up the enormous document, Gaia spared five seconds to go back and delete the e-mail Catherine had sent—just in case somebody came into this room later and discovered it—and then, flicking out the lights, holding the tube of paper that was covered with mysterious hieroglyphics she couldn’t begin to understand, Gaia sneaked out of the Municipal Works Technical Records Department, closing the door behind her, and, retracing her steps by memory, began making her way back out of the ancient stone building. She couldn’t stop fingering Catherine’s bracelet in her pocket.
Gaia
Time Stamp: 2:51 p.m.
[Recorder on] Okay, it’s getting on three in the afternoon and I’m doing this again. At this point, as a fugitive from justice, on the run from the bureau, having directly disobeyed an FBI agent’s order at gunpoint that I surrender myself, I guess it’s fairly ridiculous for me to still be making agent’s logs.
Except maybe it’s part of who I am now. Maybe I shouldn’t call all these new behaviors “FBI”—maybe they’re just me. I’m going to keep making agent’s logs because they help me think.
Not that it’s doing any good right now.
When Marsh told me about gray ops, I didn’t want to believe it. But then he disappeared. If he was wrong—if the bureau just wants to take me in and question me, if they’re not trying to kill me—then why did Winston Marsh vanish?
It’s a serious problem. Because anyone who would kill Marsh—who would surgically remove a private detective from the face of the earth just because he chanced his way into the edge of a federal investigation of terrorists—won’t stop there.
If they get to me, they’re going to find out about Will—and what he did for me. And then they’ll have to “gray op” him, too.
I was so reassuring. I told him it wasn’t any risk at all; I demanded that he just start doing research into what turned out to be a terrorist cell. And now he’s in as much danger as I am. [Pause]
I think I’ve done it again. I’ve gone and gotten myself into that condition where there’s a boy in my life and I can’t control how I feel about him. I remember there was a time when I swore I’d never do that again.
But that was a long time ago. And I’m older now and maybe a little bit wiser. Maybe it’s okay to be back in this condition. I have to admit that since this whole FBI thing began, this roller-coaster ride of love and death, Will’s been the one consistently dependable thing in my life. I can’t say that about Jennifer Bishop, who was, I guess, my first friend and ally in the bureau, or about Malloy … or even Catherine or Marsh, the latest would-be “spirit guide” to enter my life and then vanish.
I’m tired of making mistakes. I want to fix the ones I’ve made—and then I don’t want to make any more.
Marsh—I hope you’re alive. And I’ll honor what you did for me—when I save Catherine, it will be thanks to your help. Without you I’d be nowhere.
But now I’m on my own again.
And I’ve got to warn Will. If they think he knows anything at all …
This really is like a twilight zone I’ve stumbled into. It’s like that dream I had this morning when I was following the river deep into that dark country. I’m still driving, still recording, still looking for my friend. I could still use a little help. I still could use Will Taylor, right here next to me in the car—I guess that might be my one wish, but don’t tell him I said so. And whether I’m a fugitive, a criminal, or an agent, I’m still on the case. I’m following this river all the way to the end.
Agent Moore signing off. [Recorder off]
HACKER CITY CHATSTREAM #49—90
transcript August 23, 2005, 15:04:01 EDT
type alt-x to exit; alt-p to print
WILL22: Gaia.
GAIA13: Will.
WILL22: Are you OK?
GAIA13: Yes. No. I’m not sure. I’m lying on a bed in a cheap motel in Collingswood, PA, near Philadelphia.
WILL22: What happened last night? I got worried.
GAIA13: Sorry about that. Rudely interrupted.
WILL: Did you get my info?
GAIA13: Yes, I did. Thnx for helping, Will.
WILL22: Don’t mention it.
GAIA13: Catherine was here, in this town. She was here TODAY, Will.
WILL22: What?
GAIA13: She’s been abducted by the terrorist organization in that memo, Will. Socorro. Rossiter took her to Baltimore and I fought him, but he got away and I never found her … she’d been moved.
WILL22: Damn.
GAIA13: Will, I could smell her shampoo on the pillow. It was REALLY HER tied up in that basement. I can’t even think about it.
WILL22: We’ll find her, Gaia. But we’ve got to bring the bureau in and tell them everything you’ve found out.
GAIA13: NO NO NO NO NO
WILL22: Gaia, don’t be unreasonable. I know you think they don’t care about finding Catherine, but I can’t believe that’s true.
GAIA13: Will, listen, you’ve got to PROMISE ME you won’t say a word to anyone at Quantico about this. You have to PROMISE because it’s life and death.
WILL22: What are you talking about?
GAIA13: You read Winston Marsh’s record, right? You understand who he is? You would trust him if he told you about a secret undocumented FBI policy?
WILL22: ??
GAIA13: According to Marsh there are “gray operations,” or gray ops, where they terminate—that’s assassinate—agents who have come in personal contact with terrorists or terrorist organizations.
WILL22: And there’s no record of it?
GAIA13: Exactly. At first I didn’t believe it. But Will, Marsh VANISHED right after he told me that. And the FBI’s been after me since yesterday.
WILL22: Gaia, listen. The memo I sent you says “El Dia”—the day they’re doing whatever horrible thing they’re doing—is tomorrow.
GAIA13: I know, and I’ve got to find out what it is because Catherine’s going to be right in the middle of it.
WILL22: Do you have any clues at all?
GAIA13: Just this big chart that Socorro stole from the Department of Public Works, which I finally figured out is a map of Philadelphia. It’s got a single intersection marked—Decatur and Main. But the map has a layer of lines over it that I don’t understand at all.
WILL22: What do the lines look like?
GAIA13: Just like lines, running throughout the city and converging on particular spots.
WILL22: Could they be water pipes?
WILL22: Gaia?
GAIA13: Oh my God—yes. Yes, that’s exactly what they are. Here, they lead to the reservoir and interlock with the sewers. Yes—this is a map of the Philadelphia water system.
WILL22: And Socorro has that map? Gaia, is Socorro going to poison the Philly water supply?
GAIA13: I have to go to that intersection … Decatur and Main … tomorrow.
WILL22: Gaia? Are you sure that’s a good idea?
GAIA13: If you’ve got a better one, now’s the time.
WILL22: I’ve got a MUCH better idea. TELL THE FBI that Catherine’s in the hands of James Rossiter. They’ve got him on file, like I told you before. When they see his name, they’ll jump.
GAIA13: Will, you’re right. Rossiter. He’s the key to figuring out what Socorro’s doing and where Catherine is.
WILL22: Exactly.
GAIA13: This is important. Don’t reveal ANYTHING to Malloy or Bishop or anyone else about any of this.
WILL22: Because I’m going to get “gray-opped”? Gaia, come on. You know how paranoid you sound.
GAIA13: DO NOT TALK TO THEM. Will, I am very serious about this. You’ve got to PROMISE ME you won’t say a word. If you had heard Marsh’s description of gray ops, you would take me seriously. And it was only a few hours later that the white van showed up. We can’t trust anyone. We’ve got to do this alone.
WILL22: Gaia, don’t go to Philly if you’re not sure what you’re doing.
GAIA13: Miss you. Really miss you.
WILL22: Miss you too.
GAIA13: Wish you were here.
WILL22: Me too. Gaia, please don’t do anything risky or stupid.
GAIA13: God, I’m SO TIRED. So tired, Will. I feel like I’ve just been going and going and I had nothing but weird dreams last night and now my eyes feel like they’re made of lead.
WILL22: Gaia?
WILL22: Gaia, are you there?
GAIA13: Tired. I’ll
WILL22: Gaia?
WILL22: Gaia? Are you there?