Paradigms Lost (16 page)
Authors: Ryk E Spoor
CHAPTER 23
Remembering Old Times
“Okay, Jason, what’ve you got?”
That was Renee, straight to the point. “A whole lot. But first, come here; there’s someone I want you to meet.”
She followed me to the living room. Verne rose from the red chair, bowed as I introduced them. “Renee Reisman, Verne Domingo.”
She didn’t shake hands. “Jason, we’ve had our eye on this man for some time. I’d like to know just what his connection is with you.”
“I shall explain, my lady,” Verne said. “Look at me,” he continued in a low but commanding voice.
Reflexively she shot a glance into his eyes—and froze.
He stepped closer, touched her temple gently with his right hand. He gazed intensely at her for several seconds. “Remember,” he said.
Renee’s eyes widened. A choked scream burst from her lips, and she staggered back, sagged, pale and shaking, onto my couch. “Oh dear God . . .” She closed her eyes, massaged her temples, and took several ragged breaths. Finally she raised her head. “I . . . I remember now. But until now, it was like those memories didn’t exist.” She stared at Verne, still shaking.
“My sincerest apologies, Renee—may I call you Renee? Those memories were still there; merely locked away, as you requested. But Jason has convinced me that we need your aid, and we both knew that you must have your full memory to help us.”
The old Renee was reasserting herself, albeit slowly. “That bad, huh?” She raised an eyebrow at me. “I assume that his being here means that he isn’t our killer.”
“You’re right.”
She turned back to Verne. “Okay, Domingo. Now that my brain is back, this had better be real good. Because,” she shivered again, “I don’t think I’ll be able to go through that again. Having my memory switched on and off like a light . . .”
Verne smiled, the gentlest expression I’d ever seen him use; his fangs didn’t show. “Milady, you showed courage far greater than mine to undergo that treatment once; neither of us either desired or expected that you would once more ask to forget.”
“Damn straight.” She ran her fingers through her hair, took a deep breath, and crossed her legs. “All right, let’s have it.”
CHAPTER 24
Gone and Dead
I logged on and checked; I had a secured e-mail waiting. I pulled it up onscreen.
The message decoded just as though Manuel had sent it . . . but it wasn’t from Mannie at all. That was so close to impossible that, for a moment, I couldn’t do anything except gape. Then I reread the signature at the bottom, and understood.
Mentor (or should I say, Jason?): I’m sorry to tell you that Manuel has gotten himself into a bit of trouble by poking his nose into this. He doesn’t have anywhere near the necessary clearance. He’s being debriefed right now, but I’d suggest you not contact him for a while; not only is he more than slightly peeved at you, but any more contact from the outside might be seen as seriously amiss by his superiors.
Since he emphatically assured me that you’re too stubborn to be frightened off, and because we happen to be kindred spirits in a way, I’ll give you what information I can. But let me warn you: this is dangerous. You and everyone you know could get killed if you play these games. So give serious consideration to just dropping it.
“Vlad Dracul” is apparently another alias being used by an independent operator called “Gorthaur.” Gorthaur plays no favorites; he’s been bypassing security and penetrating installations on five continents. Very rarely does he take direct credit for his actions except for those which he perpetrates on the Net—that’s where he gets his name.
What tells us that Gorthaur’s involved is the sheer perfection of his work. In every case, he penetrates the installation in the guise of a high-clearance individual who is well-known to the personnel. Fingerprints, retinals, passwords, everything checks out perfectly. These individuals vary in age, height, weight, and even gender to such a degree that we are utterly unable to imagine—much less determine—how one person can pull off all of these impersonations. Yet, subtle indicators tell us that it is just one person.
So far, three agents have been killed in particularly savage ways while trying to locate Gorthaur. The one killed in Morgantown thought he had found a hot trail. Apparently, he had. Gorthaur exhibits psychopathic strength and savagery, and has killed several other people who apparently offended him at one point or another. Our best psych profile makes him out to be a complete sociopath with a megalomaniac complex, but there are enough anomalies that we can’t begin to classify him. He’s unique.
Watch your back. If he can disguise himself this well, he could be anyone.
The Jammer
The Jammer: hacker legend, thief, one of the few completely nonviolent criminals to make the ten-most-wanted list, and maybe the only one who never had a picture to go with his “wanted” poster. No one knows anything about him—even the “him” was in question. He’d disappeared a couple of years ago, and everyone thought he’d retired. Now, it was clear that he’d been caught and recruited. But someone with his talent couldn’t be forced to work, so they must have shown him something so important that he chose to work for them rather than against them.
I erased the message and sat back, sweating. Who knew what this werewolf wanted, really? Vengeance against Verne Domingo, yes, but that wasn’t enough for him to go breaking into top-secret vaults here and around the world. He had to have some other, larger agenda. And how in the name of God could you catch something that could change sex, fingerprints, and genetics at will?
There
wasn’t
any way, I realized. The only chance to catch Gorthaur was to get him to come to us, and only one thing was keeping him here: Verne Domingo. Once he settled with Verne, he’d vanish forever.
I logged off that system, got on to the Demon’s board. He hadn’t responded to my query; probably at dinner, which was where I should be. Then I noticed one of my status tags:
Email: Waiting: 0 Old: 3
The last time I’d been on, there’d only been two old messages. I called up the last one:
>From System Operator Demon<<
Okay, if it’s that important, we can meet in person. Be here at six; we’ll have dinner. I don’t like it, Mentor; this had better be worth it.
THE DEMON
(____)
\* */
\#/
What the hell? I hadn’t written him lately! Who . . . ?
Suddenly it hit me. If even the Jammer couldn’t catch this guy . . . I shut the computer off and sprinted for Mjölnir.
I had a sickening feeling that I was too late.
I’d been there only once before, but that I remembered every turn. The lights were with me, and it was only fourteen minutes before I slammed on the brakes and skidded into place in front of the Demon’s house. I was out the door before the engine finished dying, my S&W ten-millimeter out and ready. I rang the bell. No answer. I tried the door. Already unlatched, it swung open quietly at my touch. The hallway was dim and silent. “Yo! Demon!” I called.
No answer.
My heart was hammering too damn fast; I’d swear it was audible a hundred feet away. I stepped cautiously into the house. In the faint light, I could see the hallway, the stairs to the second floor, and two entryways. I knew that one led to the living room, the one on the left, and past that was the den where the computer was. Slowly, I took my coat off and threw it through the entry. It hit the rug; nothing moved. I dove into the living room, rolled as I hit, and landed with my back to the far corner, gun up.
Nothing. Just furniture.
A faint creaking noise came from ahead of me. I stood stock-still, listening. The wind outside moaned. The creak came again. It was emanating from the den. The door to the den was ajar, and I could see the white glow of a monitor screen.
I went forward one step at a time, trying to watch all directions at once. My ears would have pricked up if they could. The only sounds I heard were the whistle of the wind and that faint, periodic creaking.
I reached the door. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I flung it wide.
A horrid red-splotched face swung toward me. I almost fired, but stopped and lowered the gun. “Jesus Christ . . .” I muttered.
Jerome Sumner, aka the Demon, hung head-down from one of the big beams of his old house. The rope that was tied around his ankles creaked as he swung slowly in the wind from the open window. His eyes stared blankly at me; his mouth was jammed open with a crumpled floppy disk. The room was filled with the faint metallic scent of the blood on his face, on his clothes, and on the floor. I glanced away, saw his computer.
It was covered with spatters of blood. Lying on top of the keyboard was a shapeless dark object. I moved closer.
It was the Demon’s tongue. I swallowed bile, looked at the screen.
The BBS was off, but there was a banner-making program on. Four giant words blazed on the screen:
HE TALKED TOO MUCH
I was still staring a few minutes later when the NSA arrived.
CHAPTER 25
Ways to Make You Talk
I looked up as the cell door opened. Renee entered. She walked over and took my hand without a word. After a moment, she said, “You okay?”
“I guess,” I said finally. “Am I getting out of here?”
“Hell if I know,” Renee said. “Jason, what were you doing over at Jerome Sumner’s?”
“Bending over and getting screwed by the bastard who killed him.” The fury overwhelmed me for a moment; I slammed my fist into the wall, then nursed my bruised hand. “I was set up perfectly. He was killed by this ‘Vlad’ guy you’re looking for, and I’m supposed to take the fall.”
She might have been in uniform, but she was here as a friend. Her hand on my shoulder told me that. “You won’t. No one who knows you will believe it.”
“But the NSA doesn’t know me. How does the evidence look?”
Renee Reisman screwed up her face. “Not good. You were found there. Your fingerprints were all over the place, including on the keyboard . . . on just the keys necessary to put up that banner.”
Jesus Christ. Of course they were. The bastard was imitating
me
! “But the way he was killed—I don’t think I
could
do that, even if I wanted to.”
She shook her head. “You know the answer to that. Besides, you’re a smart guy, Jase. Always have been. Prosecution wouldn’t have any problem convincing people that you could figure out how to do it.” She hugged me suddenly. “I just came to let you know I’m with you. I could pull strings and get myself here. Sylvie’s pulling for you too.”
I hugged her back, feeling suddenly scared. If the NSA followed the evidence . . . and Gorthaur was as good at this as he seemed to be . . . I could end up put away for life. “Thanks, Renee. I mean it.”
“We should get together more often. Not in a jail cell, either.” She smiled faintly, and for a moment she looked like the same girl I’d first met in junior high. “You aren’t going to prison. I promise you.”
“Exceeding our authority a bit, Lieutenant?” a precise voice said from the doorway.
We both jumped slightly. The woman who entered was in her mid to late thirties, sharp-featured, with red hair and a tall, athletic frame. She was followed by a somewhat younger sandy-haired man carrying a brown paper sack and a briefcase. The woman continued, “Fortunately, I don’t like to make liars out of my professional associates. You aren’t going to prison, Mr. Wood. Jeri Winthrope, Special Agent, at your service; this is my assistant and second pair of hands, Agent Steve Dellarocca.” She extended her hand.
I shook it, then waited while Steve put down the stuff he was carrying and shook his, too. “Thanks. Glad to meet you. These have been the longest hours I’ve ever spent waiting anywhere.”
“Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. We didn’t think you were the responsible party, but the evidence didn’t look good. We had to check everything out thoroughly.” She looked at Renee. “I’ll have to talk to Mr. Wood alone now, Lieutenant Reisman.”
Renee nodded. I gave her a smile and said, “Thanks, Renee.”
“Don’t mention it.” The door closed behind her.
“Me, too, Jeri?” asked Steve.
“For now,” Jeri said. “I want you to keep tabs on the rest of the operation.”
“Gotcha. You know where to find me.”
I became aware of the aroma of Chinese food coming from the bag Dellarocca had brought with him.
“Hope you like pork lo mein.” Jeri said. “I thought you’d be hungry, and lord knows I never get a chance to eat on this job.”
“Thanks.” I started unpacking the food. “How did you people get to Demon’s place so fast? I only ended up there out of sheer luck.”
“We got a call. Person said he heard screams from that house and saw a car pulling out fast.”
“You got a call? That sounds more like police business.”
She nodded. “We’re manning the police phones. Mostly we just pass the stuff on, but it gives us the chance to keep sensitive material to ourselves.”
“But what made that call sensitive?”
“The address. Your friend Jerome, the Demon, was on our little list of Gorthaur’s potential targets.”
So she wasn’t going to pretend that I didn’t know what was going on. That made it easier. “Why did he go after the Demon?”
“Several reasons. The major one is that Gorthaur hates to be laughed at or threatened; he’s an utter psycho when it comes to insults. The Demon had thrown Gorthaur off his board and threatened him with exposure.”
Nodding, I started to dig into the pork lo mein. Poor Demon. An image of him hanging head-down flashed in my mind. I put my fork down quickly; all of a sudden I wasn’t hungry. “Okay, you seem to assume Gorthaur did him in. So what in the evidence keeps me from being Gorthaur?”
Winthrope gave a snort, which I interpreted as a chuckle. “Gorthaur may be able to do a lot of things we don’t understand, but he’s not omnipotent or omniscient. He’s good at planting evidence, but apparently he either doesn’t understand or neglected to remember what modern technology can do. Despite the caller’s description matching your car, we were able to determine that your vehicle hadn’t been there previously. We could tell how long it had been standing there—not long at all. Also, if you were calm enough to put up the banner program, you were very unlikely to have forgotten anything . . . and thus you’d never have come back.” She smiled. “Interesting car, by the way. In your profession, I suppose the electronic gadgetry should be expected, but I don’t recall ever seeing an armored Dodge Dart before. Made us wonder if you were in our line of work for real, except that most of the other work seemed homemade rather than professional.”