Looking down at his own body, Sebeck found it funny that he was in better physical shape now than he’d been in a decade. All he’d had to keep himself from going crazy in solitary confinement was endless reps of push-ups and sit-ups. Beneath the 24/7 buzzing fluorescent lights of his cell. He saw the knotted muscles in his arms and it brought back memories of his youth. Of better days.
Sebeck lay at a slight incline so that he could face the assembled witnesses sitting behind the nearby windows. He felt oddly calm as he regarded them. A mix of curious and angry faces stared back. Some were taking notes.
So this was the death chamber? This was what it felt like to be put to death. His hunch about Sobol had been wrong. The funeral message hadn’t brought forth any rescuer from beyond the grave. It hadn’t even seemed a remote possibility while he lived in the heart of suburbia that he would one day be put to death by the federal government. Yet here he was. He almost laughed. It was so ludicrous he half expected Rod Serling to saunter in and deliver a double-entendre-laden summation of his life. Pete Sebeck, a man whose demons got the better of him…
Was there ever really a Daemon after all? Even if there was, Sebeck had been defeated by it. His relatively brief life had been a complete waste. The only good thing he’d accomplished was his son—ironic since the pregnancy had always seemed like the worst thing that ever happened to him.
He considered that most of the people here really believed that he conspired to murder federal officers. He hardly blamed them for what they were doing. He would have looked on in righteous anger, too.
Just then Sebeck noticed Anji Anderson in the gallery. A flash of anger coursed through him. That was just the last straw—to see that smug, pert face with the slight curl of a smile on the edges of her mouth. Like an evil pixie. Sebeck’s most malevolent stare bored into her. At first she kept the smug look, but soon the trace of a smile faded, and then she finally looked away.
After conferring for a moment with the doctor, the warden leaned down and asked if Sebeck had any last words. He’d been thinking about his last words for several months. For too long, actually. It wasn’t like he was going to win over anyone. He had decided to take the stoic, unflinching approach.
He looked to the mirrored glass of the window concealing the victims’ families. “I didn’t kill your loved ones. I didn’t kill anyone. But if I were in your position, I’d think I was guilty, too. Hopefully, the truth will come out someday, if only so that my son knows his father isn’t a murderer.” He paused. “That’s it, let’s get this over with.”
Almost immediately he felt a warm sensation in his arm. It spread like a wave of numbness over his entire body. It occurred to him that this was the speed of his circulatory system. He also noticed a label on the fluorescent light fixture above him. It read, “30W BALLAST PARABOLIC REFLECTOR.” It was a strange message to depart this life with. So he turned to face the doctor standing nearby, an angular man with cold blue eyes who stared icily back at Sebeck. Even Sebeck couldn’t meet his fierce gaze, so he fixated on the logo on the lapel of the doctor’s lab coat. It read: “Singer/Kellog Medical Services, Inc.”
Sebeck found his eyes getting heavy, and his breathing became labored. He turned back toward the overhead light. As the last of his vision faded, he struggled to maintain a focus on the light. Sebeck realized he had forgotten to appreciate his last sight of this world. It was too late, and he fought for one last glimpse. But everything was blackness. And then it was nothingness, and he fell into a well of emptiness so deep and broad that it was as though the entire universe had ceased to exist.
Detective Sergeant Peter Sebeck died at 6:12 P.M., Pacific Standard Time.
Chapter 40:// A New Dimension
Newswire.com
Sebeck Executed (Lompoc, CA)—Ex–police detective Peter Sebeck was put to death by lethal injection at the Lompoc Federal Prison at 6:12 P.M. Monday. Convicted early last year for his part in the Daemon hoax, Sebeck’s trial and appeals had been fast-tracked through the federal justice system. Federal prosecutor Wilson Stanos commented, “This judgment sends a clear message to the enemies of freedom.”
Natalie Philips entered the windowless Daemon Task Force offices well past midnight. She was expecting the place to be nearly deserted, but instead she saw a knot of techs and heavily armed security personnel gathered near the hallway leading to her office. They were engaged in an urgent, hushed discussion. The Major looked up from the center of the huddle as Philips approached. He nodded to her. “How was your trip, Doctor?”
Philips dropped her overnight bag on the floor nearby. “What’s going on?”
The Major thumbed down the hallway. “Your hacker friend is having some sort of episode. He locked himself in conference room B and changed the access codes on us.”
Philips sighed wearily and rubbed her eyes. “How long ago?”
“About an hour. I was preparing to resolve the situation.”
She eyed a guard with a tear gas gun. “That won’t be necessary, Major. I’ll go talk to him.”
The Major grinned coldly. “You’re the boss, Doctor.”
He was mocking her now. She chose to ignore it and tried to pass. He stood in her way.
“You realize I must submit a report to Centcom about this incident.”
“Understood. If you’ll excuse me…”
“Please remind him of the relevant clauses in his amnesty agreement.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. Now, if I’m not mistaken, these men have guard duties. See that they get back to them.” She hefted her bag again, but The Major waited a beat before moving aside and allowing her to pass. She trudged down the hall toward a crack of light under the door of conference room B. Once there, she stared at a red LED display glowing on the door’s proximity card reader. It read: FUCK_OFF. She smiled slightly, then flipped open the reader’s plastic cover to reveal a small ten-key pad underneath. She concentrated for a moment, then tapped in a thirty-two-digit code. Her back door. The door clicked, and she pushed inside.
“Go away.” Ross didn’t even turn around. He stood on the far side of a conference room table crowded with desktop and laptop computers. Lines of text cycled rapidly across all the screens. The rest of the room was strewn with crumpled charts, diagrams, and innumerable fanfold reports that spilled across the floor.
Ross was taking aim with a makeshift pencil dart at a large photo mosaic of Matthew Sobol’s face tacked to the far wall. The picture was tiled together from paper photocopies. A half dozen pencil darts already protruded from Sobol’s face, in addition to hundreds of other tiny holes concentrated mainly between Sobol’s eyes.
Philips took in the scene. “I can’t say this line of research holds much promise.”
Ross inclined his head slightly toward her, recognizing her voice. He hesitated for a moment, dart still poised, then completed his throw. The dart stuck into Sobol’s eyebrow. Ross drew another dart into his throwing hand and said nothing.