Based on what the NCB’s Tac team commander had told him, Nick knew that the factory’s front entrance branched off into a series of hallways that led to the main manufacturing area and loading bays.
That’s where they were headed.
The cavernous shell of the building let in only muted smudges of streaky light through its dirt-encrusted windows. The air inside was still stained with the smell of charred wood from the fire that’d ravaged the site, as if it’d absorbed the factory’s tragedy and was now infused with it.
“Did you learn anything since last night?” Nick asked Ripley.
“No. You?”
“Just that there’s an absence of evidence in the apartment.”
“But, like they say, that’s not evidence of absence.”
“No. It’s not. Sometimes people are just careful about their work, and clearly someone was present at Ms. Hathaway’s residence.”
“And you don’t know what they might have been looking for?”
“Well, they took her violin, but that doesn’t explain the needless damage. They might’ve taken it as a ruse.”
“So,” Ripley said in a measured tone, “no video of the intruders, no physical evidence left behind. Only a missing violin.”
“What does that say to you?”
“That there’s something special about that violin.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
Nick evaluated that as he stepped over a discarded, half-charred fire extinguisher canister.
A dead conveyor belt system languished in the belly of the factory. Some of the more accessible sections of it had been removed, no doubt to be sold as scrap metal.
A crowbar and sledgehammer leaned against the wall nearby, perhaps left by scrappers who were planning to return to finish the job.
And perhaps not.
Nick pointed at them and said to Ripley, “Let’s get forensics in here. Check those tools for prints and DNA. Let’s see what comes up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ripley put a call through while Nick eyed the old loading dock, and then studied the tire tracks left on the sooty floor leading toward the parking lot.
He pulled up the case files on his slate, photographed the tracks, and confirmed that they were a match to the tires of the delivery truck used in the bombing.
After hanging up, Ripley followed Nick’s gaze. “Looks like they drove to the loading bay and then filled up their truck with metal filings from that pile over there.”
“Yeah,” Nick said circumspectly. “That’s what it looks like.”
Long shadows covered most of the factory’s interior, so Nick found it necessary to pull out his flashlight to illuminate what lay before them.
“Alright. Let’s take a closer look around.” He indicated with the beam of light where he wanted Ripley to go. “You scope out the south end of the building. Look for anything that seems out of place. I’ll check this area. Meet back here in ten.”
* * *
No.
He does not forget what happened at the river.
He must not forget.
It is all before him. A swirl of images caught in his memory. Caught, and now reaching up through time, manacling him to the past.
And what was it like to be underwater?
And what was it like to be afraid?
What was it like to doubt?
A CaTE to end it all.
But he is better now. This is what they tell him.
Yet the past refuses to let him go.
“You’re not a rock, you’re a robot.”
So where is his mother? What has happened to her?
Curiosity at work, he decides to find out.
While the technicians are turned aside, their attention focused on the screen in front of them, he eases from the table.
Standing.
Quiet and swift and light and smooth, he passes through the room. Into the hallway.
Disappears into a crowd that’s on its way to the main production center.
A faint recognition of his surroundings with each step.
Either a map of the building had been uploaded to his system, or he is remembering walking these halls before. Which of the two, he cannot tell. Not for certain.
But he has the sense that this building is where he was previously awakened. This is where he spoke to his mother. Where she named him. But is that all?
A flashback. A memory. Being in another place, a house.
But that doesn’t make any sense—unless he had another owner.
Blood dripping, this he sees. A bathtub spilling crimson water. A woman sprawled within it, shuddering, wrists slit.
A realization. A chill.
Bending, and then.
Reading her slate.
And a choice that he must make.
This he remembers. This he knows.
The image fades.
He wants to uncover what it all means, and he has the sense that his mother will know.
So, first, find her.
Then, learn if he’d ever had a previous owner before Kestrel Hathaway to discern if these images are dreams or some type of hallucination and not memories at all.
* * *
It took me a while, but I was able to locate what I was looking for.
It all revolved around a man named Conrad. I didn’t know much about him, or even if that was his real name. I’d heard he served in the military, and though I wasn’t sure what rank he’d held, from what people said, he was a soldier through and through, the kind of person who sees enough action so he’s never quite comfortable living the life of a civilian again after leaving the service.
Once a soldier, always a soldier.
So they said.
He might not still be involved with the Purists, he might not even still be alive, but reaching out to him was worth a shot.
After tracking down a proxy server I’d used back when I was writing the blogs, I sent a message through the group’s back channels and waited.
Find the ghost and find some answers.
My note to Conrad: “I have a handful of stars. We need to talk. Others are listening.”
The reference was to the title of an F. W. Boreham book first published in 1922: A Handful of Stars. Like me, Conrad was a fan of Boreham’s writing, and we’d often used references to the missionary’s books in our previous correspondence. If Conrad saw this message, he would know it was from me.
I had no idea if he would reply—actually, I doubted that he would—but it was at least something I could do. A practical step to try to help.
Like everyone’s slate, mine contained a certain degree of encryption, but since I’d mentioned that others were listening, I trusted that if Conrad did receive this message he would find a way of communicating with me that was even more secure.
It was almost time to head back to my apartment to see if I could get some cleaning done before calling in at noon to check on Jordan’s status.
I went upstairs to the bedroom Arabella had let me use and gathered my things.
* * *
The ten minutes were up.
Ripley hadn’t returned.
Nick lanced the darkness with his light, a narrow beam slicing angular slits into the dusty, languid air, but he found nothing.
No clues.
No movement.
He began mentally sorting through the information from the case—what he knew and what he didn’t, where he was letting speculation color the facts, and where he felt like he was on the right track.
If their intel was accurate, something else was going to go down this weekend. That fit with what Ripley had told him last night about Trevor and his team being on the cusp of a breakthrough in ASI development. That research was at Terabyne’s headquarters out west. Is that where the attack would take place? Not enough information yet to know. Not enough to tell one way or the other.
Nearly thirty meters away, Ripley emerged from the shadows.
“See anything?” Nick asked.
Ripley shook his head. “No. You?”
“Nothing.”
“You ready to take off or—”
“Wait.” Nick held up a finger. “Hang on.”
“What is it?”
“Shh.” He pressed the finger to his lips. “I think I heard something.”
Nick cupped one hand behind his ear as he turned his head slowly to try to identify if he actually had heard a noise, and if so, which direction it had come from.
He was just about to tell Ripley that he was ready to leave when he heard it again.
Yes.
Footsteps.
Faint and distant, but definitely not his ears playing tricks on him.
Quickly, he swept the light in the direction of the sound and, at the far end of his beam, caught sight of a ski-masked figure escaping toward the other side of the building.
“Go around back,” Nick shouted to Ripley, “in case he heads east!”
As Ripley took off, Nick bolted toward the fleeing suspect.
With his flashlight beam leading the way, he hurdled a pile of concrete rubble where a portion of the ceiling had caved in, shot through the slats of sunlight edging in from above, and then reentered the darkness.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Federal agent!”
But that only seemed to spur the person on to run faster, and Nick lost sight of him in a soot-enshrouded hallway, but realized that Ripley should have been in place to stop him.
Moments later, he heard Ripley shout, “Drop your weapon!”
Nick darted toward his voice through the passageway that the person had disappeared into, and emerged in the east wing of the building.
He got there just as the shots rang out.
Four.
Double taps.
Someone who knew what he was doing.
The two figures had been standing maybe ten meters apart and now, following the gunshots, the one on the left crumpled limply to the ground.
Nick still couldn’t tell if his associate had been the shooter or the victim.
“Ripley!” he called urgently. “You okay?”
No reply.
Nick leveled his weapon at the figure who’d fired the shots, the one who hadn’t yet responded to his shouting.
“Ripley?”
“I’m alright!” he announced at last.
Yes, he was alive.
Yes, he was the one still on his feet.
Nick steadied his gaze at the victim, who lay prone on the concrete, and asked Ripley, “What do we know?”
“He drew something out of his waistline and pointed it at me. I thought it was a handgun and I couldn’t take the chance that I was wrong.”
Together, with guns in position, the two men approached the person to see if he was dead and if he’d really had a weapon after all.
* * *
Before I could leave, Arabella insisted that I take some food with me, and though I declined at first, when she pressed me, I finally gave in, accepting a covered plate of fried chicken. Knowing Arabella, I guessed that it would be from an actual chicken and wouldn’t be factory-grown meat, which was the norm these days.
Despite my views on such an extravagancy, I accepted the gift.
Then, I checked my slate, saw no messages from Conrad, and took off for my apartment.
* * *
Halfway to the body, Nick reminded himself to not assume anything.
Even though the figure lay still, it didn’t mean that he was necessarily dead—he knew that from past experience. A year ago, his partner at the time had shot a suicide bomber before the man could detonate his vest, and he’d collapsed and lay on the ground facedown, completely motionless—until they came to his side, when he suddenly rolled onto his back, exclaimed his allegiance to his god, and blew himself up.
Though Nick’s arm and left side were still scarred from the incident, at least he’d survived the blast. His partner had not.
That’s what was on his mind as he approached the figure on the grimy floor of the warehouse.
“Stay back and cover me,” he said to Ripley. “I’ll check for a pulse.”
As he drew closer, he saw that the person had a small frame, and by her figure, he could tell that it was a woman. Her hands were visible. Caucasian. She lay on her back. Balaclava still in place over her head. No weapon in sight.
As per protocol, Nick once again identified himself as a federal agent, ordered her not to move, then, to secure the scene, he cuffed her before placing two fingers on her neck.
No pulse.
After verifying that she didn’t have an explosive vest or belt, he eased the ski mask up to reveal her face.
And immediately recognized her: Sienna Gaiman, the technician he’d met yesterday at the Terabyne production facility.