It was curious, Patel had always thought, how history unfailingly distilled the life of any scientist to a single prominent work. Einstein and his special theory of relativity, Schrödinger and the paradox of his cat. He supposed authors and filmmakers and musicians were likewise doomed: a relevance of singularity. Still, the important thing was to have that one masterpiece. To have a Manhattan Project. Patel thought he might have found his — if he could make it work, it would be every bit as revolutionary. The surgeon, Dr. Abel Badenhorst, was capable enough, but Patel was without question the innovator, the driving force. And Badenhorst knew it. General Benefield, unfortunately, was another matter. His unmatched ego and aggressive nature were likely bred of education. Patel had attended Caltech, the general West Point, which meant they were trained to different standards, and dispatched into the world with markedly different missions. Now, by some tease of fate, those missions had intersected in an undertaking with mind-bending potentiaclass="underline" the META Project.
With a few minutes to spare, Patel diverted to a washroom. At the mirror he removed his glasses and used a wad of paper towels to wipe the mist from his thin face. Strangely, it seemed to reappear after a few moments. He knew it wasn’t the presentation — with a lectern in front of him, he was always at home, firmly in command of his subject matter. It is the critical juncture of the project, he thought.
Patel wiped his face dry a second time. He then straightened his lapel, snugged his tie, and walked resolutely to the Hofburg Galerie.
DeBolt woke late and ill rested, but a shower improved his outlook considerably. The wound on his calf was sore, and he decided it would require a bandage and something to ward off infection. He had other aches and pains, but most were improving. He went to the window where light was streaming in, and the first thing he saw was the pharmacy. That’ll be the first stop, he decided.
The Cadillac was still in the parking lot, which seemed reassuring. Even so, DeBolt was reluctant to use the car again, and for the same reason he discarded the idea of stealing a different vehicle using OnStar or a system like it — convenient as it was, such thefts could be tracked. Anyway, the issue of transportation seemed pointless with no destination in mind. That would be his priority today.
He had to find out what had been done to him, and his only lead was Joan Chandler. He referenced the mainframe in his head, performed a search on her name, and was soon faced with choosing the correct Joan Chandler out of sixty-three on offer. It turned out to be a simple problem. He cross-referenced inputs of nurse, Maine, and, finally, property records for Washington County. There was only one Joan Chandler who met those narrow criteria.
He was getting more proficient.
She had been born in Virginia, educated at the University of North Carolina, and was an RN with a certified specialty in perioperative nursing — in essence, a surgical assistant. This gave DeBolt pause. She had admitted to putting a needle in his arm. It’s what saved you, Trey. But had she also been present during his surgery? He thought it likely until the next bit of information arrived. Chandler’s nursing license had been revoked last year. The reason: substance abuse.
He recalled her nightly bouts, the drinking that seemed to accelerate each day at the cottage. DeBolt steeled himself, then requested recent news about Joan Chandler. He expected an obituary, an investigation into her violent death. What he saw was incomprehensible. Her cottage had been destroyed in an explosion, the origins of which were suspicious and under investigation.
DeBolt, of course, knew the truth. Five men. Five professionals who would never be held to account. Not unless he could do something about it. He suppressed a surge of something new — anger — and began plodding through Chandler’s work history and tax records. He discovered that for the last nineteen months she’d been employed by RTM Services, an ambiguous name for a company whose digital footprint turned out to be equally opaque. The only grain of useful information — RTM was incorporated in the state of Maine.
DeBolt stared out the window, past his heisted car to the river beyond. Soon a new option came to mind. He input Chandler’s name, her address on Cape Split, and performed a search for her phone number. The wait was longer than usual, but he got a result, courtesy, apparently, of AT&T. He wondered if the company was aware that its data was being shared. If not, could he somehow be held accountable for the breach? That question was easily replaced by another: What can AT&T do for me?
DeBolt input the number, then added: Location track, last two months.
He waited a full five minutes, but there was no response, not even “REQUEST INVALID,” or “NULL.” Nothing at all. He had presumably found a new boundary, and took it with grudging acceptance. Certainly there were limits to what he could acquire.
Still at the window, a defeated DeBolt focused on the Cadillac. More than ever, he was bothered by it. It seemed like a marker, a beacon that could only attract trouble. He should have parked farther away. Last night he’d been tired, not thinking clearly. Now he felt a compulsion to get clear, even if he didn’t have a destination in mind. He turned away from the window and grabbed the backpack full of cash — he had yet to count it, or even estimate how much was inside. DeBolt decided to set out on foot, and once he was safely away from the car he would concentrate on the basics — food, fresh clothing, a bandage for his leg — before trying to discover more about Joan Chandler and her mysterious employer.
He’d just gripped the door handle when he heard heavy boots on the stairs. DeBolt froze. He’d heard a similar clatter last night, but now it struck him differently. Then it had seemed an annoyance. Now it came as a warning.
I’m too close to the car.
Five men.
DeBolt put his eye to the peephole and saw a man on the staircase landing outside. He only got a glimpse, but it was all he needed — a face he would never forget, last seen in the parking lot of Roy’s Diner in Jonesport.
DeBolt let go of the door handle like it was on fire.
20
The room above DeBolt’s own was the only other with a view of the Cadillac. Multiple sets of boots stomped across the floor. How did I not see it?
He quickly crossed the room, keeping to the shadows, and looked out the window with a new suspicion. On the sidewalk he saw two old men walking side by side, one with a dog on a leash. A woman maneuvered a stroller around a puddle. A UPS driver was delivering packages to the pharmacy. With rising paranoia he mistrusted them all.
DeBolt tried to settle his thoughts.
The Tahoe — he tried to recall the license plate number, but drew a blank. Maine, 846 … no …
“Dammit!”
How could he recover it? He sent: Archive searches.
INVALID CRITERIA
History.
NULL INPUT
DeBolt pressed his eyes shut, tried to concentrate. How does it work? he wondered.
Very deliberately, he input: Search history, November 19, Chevy Tahoe, Jonesport, Maine.
864B34, MAINE
CHEVY TAHOE, WHITE, VIN 1GCGDMA8A9KR07327