DeBolt was quiet for a moment, introspective. “I wish it were a trick, Shannon. Really I do.” He pulled his chair around the table, closer to hers, and said, “Let me show you one last thing — I think it will convince you.” He turned his head, and with a hand he raked his hair upward. She saw terrible scars on the base of his skull.
“My God! Trey … is that from the accident?”
“No. I had a severe concussion, some internal bleeding. My shoulder was messed up, and there were a few lacerations. But I had only minor cuts on my scalp from the accident. The scars you’re looking at are from the surgery that came later. The surgery that enabled me to do all these crazy things.”
He pulled away and sipped his coffee, his eyes going distant. He was giving her time to think it through. Hurried travelers swept past, purposeful and quick, oblivious to the distracted young couple drinking coffee. A recorded announcement looped on the public-address system, something about security and having a nice day.
She finally said, “I don’t understand. What exactly have they done to you?”
“That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t know. But I need to find out … and it would be really nice to have some help.”
27
They began their quest from Lund’s room, which was more comfortable, and certainly more secure, than an airport donut shop. It was standard-issue: two beds, one television, and a desk near a tiny sitting area. Everything was clean and gray and soulless — a road warrior’s bunker. It was exactly what they both needed.
He spent nearly an hour explaining what he’d been through since leaving Cape Split. Lund allowed him to talk with minimal interruption, holding her questions until the end.
She said, “Tell me how this thing works. How do you manage it?”
“There’s a screen in my right eye, embedded in my field of vision. I concentrate on words, phrases, and they appear on the screen. It’s hard to explain, but I’m getting better at it.”
“The facial recognition — how did you do that?”
“I can capture images, almost like snapshots, and upload them. I don’t always get an answer, and it doesn’t work on kids, probably because their faces aren’t in whatever database I’m drawing from.”
“Where do you think this is all sourced?”
“I have no idea — that’s one of the things I’ve been trying to figure out. I have noticed that I lose my connection every now and again — in rural areas mostly, just like a cell phone. Even when I have a good connection, certain responses come more quickly than others. Sometimes I get no information at all. I managed to get a plot on where Joan Chandler’s phone had been in recent weeks, but it took half a day to arrive. It all makes sense, I guess. Every information source has its limitations, and plowing through data takes time.”
“But you can get information on license plates and income taxes — that could only come from our government.”
“Probably.”
“FBI, DOD, CIA,” she said, thinking out loud. “It has to be some three-letter agency.”
“Maybe all of them. Right now, the most frustrating thing is that I don’t even know what I’m capable of. I’m constantly stumbling onto new ways to use it, angles I’d never thought of.”
“This is mind-numbing, Trey.” She strolled to the fifth-floor window and looked outside blankly, trying to grasp the scope of what he was telling her. “Imagine the things you could do. Access to any electronic file. Do you realize how powerful that could be?”
“Gets you thinking, doesn’t it? But honestly, at the moment … it doesn’t feel powerful at all. It seems like a burden. And I’m sure it’s the reason I’ve been targeted.”
“The clinic you told me about, the one that burned down — do you think that’s where the surgery was performed?”
“It’s a only a guess, but Joan Chandler was a surgical nurse. And like I said, I got a track on her phone. She went to that clinic almost every day in the weeks before and after my accident.”
“But then she took you to her cabin after the surgery. Why would she do that?”
“She never said, but I don’t think anyone else knew I was there. I think I was given up for dead at the clinic. Joan might even have made it look that way. One of the few things I recall from the hospital was her administering a shot. I’ve never felt so cold…” His voice drifted away for a time. Lund said nothing, and he eventually finished the thought. “She somehow transferred me to her place to recover. I think she did it all secretly, without anyone else at the clinic realizing I was still alive.”
“So she rescued you.”
“I think so.”
Lund pondered it all. “When this clinic burned down, were there any casualties?”
“Five fatalities according to the fire chief I talked to.”
“Then there must be an ongoing investigation. That’s something I can work with.”
“How? I mean, no offense, but why would CGIS Kodiak be interested in an arson in Maine?”
“I’ve already talked to a detective in Washington County about you. I have contacts in the other Washington as well.”
He sat on the bed, and she eyed the wound on his leg. “I should have a look at that. It’s a gunshot wound?”
“I can’t say for sure, but yeah, probably. It happened that night on the beach … there were a lot of bullets flying.”
She kneeled for a closer look. “It seems to be healing, but it’s pretty deep. I could take you to a clinic or a hospital.”
“Out of the question. If it is a gunshot wound it would have to be reported to the police, right?”
Lund nodded.
“Until I know who’s after me, I can’t take that risk. And besides, just to sign in at a hospital you need insurance information and an ID. I don’t have any of that … not anymore.”
DeBolt retrieved bandages and antibiotic ointment from the pocket of a light jacket, all bought at Walmart yesterday. She cleaned and dressed the wound, and as she did, he said, “Now that you know my situation, I have to ask — are you sure you’re up for this? There are people hunting me. They’ve found me twice, and there’s a good chance they’ll find me again.”
“I’m up for it,” she said without hesitation. “You really have no idea who they are?”
“All I can say for sure is that they were driving a Chevy Tahoe with DOD plates.”
“I don’t get that,” she said. “The Department of Defense doesn’t send out kill squads, and certainly not on home field. Maybe if you were a terrorist, and they thought an attack was imminent … but you don’t fit that bill.”
“Neither did Joan Chandler, but they gunned her down in cold blood. I saw it with my own eyes. And if our government is involved, then going to the police or the FBI isn’t an option. All I could tell them is what I’m telling you. Chances are, they’d put me in a straitjacket and hand me over to the very people I’m worried about.”
She finished the dressing and stood. “All right … if there’s DOD involvement, then that’s where we start looking.”
“How?”
“You do whatever it is you do, and I’ll search the old-fashioned way — my laptop, maybe a few phone calls.”
Lund saw him smile for the first time since the Golden Anchor. “Old-fashioned?” he said. “Cell phones and laptops?”
“In light of what you can do,” she said, smiling in return, “I think maybe so. Think about it, Trey. Where was the world with connectivity when you and I were kids? Dial-up modems have gone to smartphones and beyond. What you can do now — it’s the next logical step. Miniaturize, create a direct interface to the brain. I never thought I’d see anything like it in my lifetime … but here you are.”