Involuntary Control (Gray Spear Society) (4 page)

"Fourth one this month," a male deputy said. "Is suicide contagious?"

"I don't think so," a female deputy responded. "I bet it's the fluoridation in the water. The chemicals make people crazy."

"Speaking of crazy, you hear about that woman on Pond Street?"

"No."

"She moved all her furniture into her back yard," he said. "Every stick. Then she stayed outdoors like it was her living room. She actually tried to vacuum her grass. The neighbors called us."

Aaron stepped away. Lemonseed was becoming a very interesting place to him.

He and Norbert found a restaurant that served breakfast. There was only one real choice: the Friendly Diner. A picture of a smiling grandmother with cookies was painted on the window. A decorative wooden trellis framed the door. Pots hanging from the rafters held flowers.

Aaron led the way inside, and the aroma of fresh pancakes and coffee made his mouth water. The place was so crowded Aaron and Norbert were lucky to find a free table. Most of the patrons were farmers wearing stained coveralls and shirts with long sleeves.

A pretty, young waitress in a pink skirt came over. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Aaron smiled at her. "I want whatever you recommend and plenty of it. I'm starving. But first, I need hot coffee."

"Yes, sir." She looked at Norbert. "What would you like?"

"Pancakes, plain, a hardboiled egg, and a bowl of chopped fruit."

"Coffee?"

"No, thank you," he said. "Just a glass of milk for me."

She walked off.

"What's wrong with coffee?" Aaron said.

"I try to avoid caffeine, sir," Norbert said. "It's a potent drug. I prefer to keep my mind and body pure."

Aaron raised his eyebrows.

He looked around the restaurant. He saw plenty of smiles and lively conversation. The food portions were large, but nobody left until his plate was empty.
Nice place,
he thought.

One guy caught Aaron's attention. He was sitting in the corner with a yellow notepad. He alternated between looking at the crowd and taking careful notes. He also wore coveralls, but they were new and perfectly clean. The pen in his hand looked expensive.

"Check out the guy in the far corner," Aaron said.

Norbert casually turned his head. "Why is he studying the customers?"

"That's a good question. When he leaves, we'll follow him. I'm getting the strong impression something is very wrong here, and I want to know what it is."

"Don't we have to get back to Chicago, sir?"

"Eventually," Aaron said. "Marina will call if she needs me. She's probably happy I'm not there to boss her around anyway."

The waitress returned with coffee and milk.

"Thanks," he said. "Mind if I ask you a question?"

She gave him a suspicious glance. "I'm kind of busy. I'm also married, so if you want a date, the answer is no."

He chuckled. "Nothing like that. I've heard some strange stories about Lemonseed. What can you tell me?"

"Are you a reporter?"

"No, just a curious traveler."

She leaned down and lowered her voice. "Things have been weird lately. Three weeks ago, old man Peterson killed himself with his own car."

"How?" Aaron said.

"He put it in first gear, jumped out, and stuck his head under the front wheel. His skull was crushed. No suicide note or nothin'. He did it on Main Street in front of everybody." She crossed herself. "And there was Mrs. Livingston. Nicest old lady you ever met. She killed herself by shoving a power drill into her ear, all the way in."

"When did this start?"

"Maybe six months ago, maybe longer. The government sent some scientists to check the air and water, but they didn't find anything wrong."

"Is that guy a scientist?" Aaron pointed to the man in the corner.

The waitress looked in that direction. "No, he's a writer. He comes every day to work on his novels. I like him. He always leaves a big tip."

"Have you ever seen one of his books?"

"No. I have to go. Other customers are waiting for food." She hurried off.

Aaron shook his head. "I don't believe he's a writer, not for a second."

"That suicide story was incredible," Norbert said. "I could never lie down in front of my own car and let it roll over my head. Just the idea makes me queasy."

The waitress returned a few minutes later with the food. Aaron was served an oversized plate full of pancakes, banana slices, chocolate chips, whip cream, and nuts. It looked more like dessert than breakfast. He gobbled down the delicious meal regardless.

After they were done eating, Aaron said, "Get the car and park it across the street from this restaurant. Wait for me there. I'll stay and watch this 'writer.'"

"Yes, sir." Norbert stood up and left.

Aaron sipped his coffee for another half-hour. Finally, the writer packed his belongings into a briefcase. Aaron looked down as the writer walked past and went to the door. When he was outside, Aaron followed.

The writer started walking north along the sidewalk. Aaron jogged across the street and sat in the passenger seat of his car. Norbert already had the engine purring.

"Follow," Aaron said, "carefully."

Norbert drove forward slowly.

The writer eventually climbed into a white pickup truck. The knobby tires, emergency tire inflation tubes, and snorkel air intake marked it as a military vehicle. Aaron wrote down the license plate number.

Norbert followed the writer as he drove north. They reached a wider county road and picked up speed.

"Don't get too close," Aaron said.

"Yes, sir," Norbert said.

After two miles they started seeing signs for White Flame Technology. The writer turned left onto a narrow, unmarked road. Norbert followed.

An extensive cluster of brown buildings stood directly ahead, some as tall as five stories. An abstract flame symbol drawn with white lines decorated each one. The campus was easily as large as the entire town of Lemonseed, but much denser. Certainly thousands of people worked there. Aaron hadn't realized White Flame was such a huge operation.

"Stop," he said. "Pull over."

Norbert parked the car on a narrow shoulder.

The writer stopped at a security gate, showed identification to a guard, and proceeded.

Aaron analyzed the security measures. A tall, electrified fence surrounded the campus. There was a second fence inside the first, creating dead space where an intruder would have no place to hide. Towers stood at regular intervals, and they were manned by guards with high power rifles. A wide area outside the fence had been cleared of any foliage taller than six inches.

"That is some serious security," Aaron said. "They must do a lot of secret stuff in there. We'd better go back to the main road before a guard comes out and asks why we're here."

Norbert turned the car around and drove off.

Aaron took out his phone and called Wendy. He pressed the speaker button so Norbert could overhear the conversation.

"Hello?" she said.

"This is Aaron."

"I'm glad you called, sir. I have new information for you."

"My turn, first," he said. "Check out a license plate number for me." He read the number from the pickup truck.

After a moment she said, "Registered to White Flame Technology. It's a 'military logistics vehicle,' whatever that means."

"It's an Army truck. The driver was observing the population of Lemonseed, and he's been doing it for a while. That makes me nervous. Why is a giant military contractor studying a tiny farming community? But that's not the strangest part."

"Oh?"

"The people of Lemonseed have been killing themselves in bizarre ways," he said. "I saw one body myself. This isn't normal behavior. I have no idea how that relates to the espionage or the financial thefts, but the coincidence is very interesting. What do you have for me?"

"I spent all night investigating fraudulent money transfers, sir. It wasn't easy. The hacker is a master at covering his tracks. If I have to unscramble one more corrupt database record, I'll kill myself, too. But I do have a new name for you: Craig Pearce. He's a lawyer in Chicago who has received large payments into his personal bank account from an anonymous source. The pattern of fragmented transfers is identical to what I saw with Ms. Simmons."

"A lawyer?" Aaron raised his eyebrows. "This case just keeps branching in new directions. I guess we're going back to Chicago."

"Thank you for spending your valuable time on this, sir," Wendy said.

"No, thank you for bringing this mess to my attention. Clearly, my team needs to find out what's happening to this town. I'll call again this afternoon." He closed his phone. He looked over at Norbert and said, "This could be your first real mission as a Spear. How do you feel about that?"

Norbert furrowed his brow. "A little nervous, sir. I don't want to disappoint you."

"Worry more about disappointing God."

"Yes, sir. It's just that..." He paused.

"What?" Aaron said.

"My entire life I've wanted to fight evil. I always imagined it as a titanic conflict on some kind of spiritual battlefield, where everybody has clearly chosen sides. The truth seems to be a lot messier."

"Indeed. Just picking out the bad guys is sometimes the hardest part."

Norbert looked at Aaron. "Then how do you know if you're doing the right thing, sir?"

"You'll know at the end." Aaron patted Norbert on the shoulder. "Until then, follow orders, use your brain, and don't trust anybody."

Chapter Three

Aaron looked up at Willis Tower, formerly known as the Sears tower. The black anodized aluminum exterior stretched up until it met a layer of clouds. It was the prototypical skyscraper made entirely of boxes and straight lines with no ornamentation. The unusual architecture consisted of nine vertical "mega-modules" of varying heights. It was really nine skyscrapers pressed together to support each other. The countless windows were tinted bronze.

Aaron and Norbert walked into the impressive lobby and found a continuation of the boxes and lines theme. The interior used stainless steel and brass instead of black aluminum though. Polished granite tiles covered the floor. A sculpture that looked like a giant brown rotating corkscrew was the only curved shape in sight.

They took an elevator up to the seventy-ninth floor and stepped into a hallway. The lighting was subdued, and brown carpet made it seem even darker. Bland, commercial art decorated the walls. Aaron followed the signs to the law firm of Robbins, King, and Pearce. The oil paintings inside the law office were nicer than the ones in the hallway. All the furniture was upholstered with dark green leather that reminded Aaron of money.

Aaron spoke to the middle-aged receptionist. "We need to see Craig Pearce right away."

"Do you have an appointment, sir?" She looked at her computer screen.

"No." He showed her his FBI badge. "Tell him Special Agent Kerns and Special Agent Mullen want to talk to him about a criminal matter, and it's much more urgent than whatever he's doing now."

"Yes, sir!"

She made a quick call. Then she led Aaron and Norbert to a gorgeous corner office. Walls made of windows provided spectacular views of the city in two directions. All the furniture was built from carved and lacquered driftwood. The pieces fit together like a Chinese puzzle box.

Craig Pearce was a big man in every dimension. His brown suit had been tailored to fit his ample gut. He had thick black hair, but gray roots showed its true color.

"Thank you," Aaron said to the receptionist. "Please close the door on the way out."

She left. Aaron and Norbert remained standing even though chairs were available.

"What can I do for the FBI?" Pearce said.

Aaron pulled out his gun, cocked the hammer, and aimed at the lawyer's jowly face. "You can answer some questions."

Pearce drew back. "I'll cooperate! There's no need for threats."

Aaron nodded to Norbert. "Search his files."

"Yes, sir," Norbert said.

He went to the first of several tall file cabinets and opened the top drawer. He began to thumb through the folders.

"Hey!" Pearce said. "That's confidential material, protected by attorney-client privilege!"

"I don't give a shit," Aaron said.

"This search is entirely illegal. I'll have your badges for this."

"Good luck with that." Aaron snorted. "I want to talk about one of your clients."

"Which one?"

"If I had a name, I'd be pointing my gun at him, not you. This particular client communicates using anonymous e-mail only. You've never seen his face, but his money is sweet. The many small payments add up to more than three hundred grand. Sound familiar?"

Pearce pressed his thick lips together.