State of Decay (19 page)

“Shanks, check around. I want to talk to him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The man in the sweater looked visibly disturbed when I approached him, although I didn’t see any blood on him and there wasn’t any sign he’d been attacked. I waved the officers away and knelt with him.

“What’s your name?” I asked him. His eyes darted over to me.

“Roger. Roger Hammond.”

“Bad night, huh?”

He nodded.

“Did you know the victims?”

“Yes. I mean, as neighbors.”

“That’s pretty brave, breaking in here like that.”

He shrugged.

“Did you witness the attack?”

“No. They were already dead by the time I got inside.”

“You said you got a call from the victim?”

He nodded.

“When he called, what did he say?”

“He was whispering. He said, ‘It’s Miguel Valle. Someone’s in the apartment . . . they killed them.’ Then the line cut out.”

“Why would he call you? Why not the police?”

He shook his head back and forth slightly, staring at the floor.

“It wasn’t him. I know it wasn’t him.”

“Who do you think it was?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Someone who wanted me to find them.”

“You gonna be all right?”

“Yeah. Were all four of them dead?”

“Three.”

“There’s four,” he said. “Miguel, Becca, Kate, and Luis.”

“Luis?”

“His son.”

“How old is he?”

“Luis? Maybe nineteen or twenty.”

The second set of footprints. The son, and someone else . . . a friend? He was gone for whatever reason when the killer entered the apartment, and came back after the fact. He found the bodies, and he ran.

“Thanks, Mr. Hammond. That helps.”

Shanks was heading back into the room from down the hall, and I rejoined him and Reece.

“Your guys searched the place room to room when you got here?” I asked Reece.

“Yeah,” he said, making a face. “Whatever your guy was looking for, either he found it or it wasn’t here.”

“Fair enough. It looks like the Valles also had a son, Luis Valle, who may still be alive. We need an APB out on him immediately.”

“I’m on it.”

Reece stalked off to rejoin the others when I knelt down with Shanks.

“You think the kid had something to do with this?” Shanks asked.

“I don’t know.”

Maybe . . . maybe.
The thought nagged at me.
But maybe he’s what the killer was looking for. . . .

“Maybe he’s not running from us,” I said.

“We need him alive.”

“If he’s alive, they’ll find him,” he said.

“You dig anything else up?”

“Yeah. It looks like someone was on the computer when the attack occurred. You’ll want to see this.”

He led me down the main hallway to a room at the far end that was dark except for the illumination from the computer screen. The chair in front of it had been pushed back, leaving trails in the carpet.

“They didn’t find any prints but the family’s,” Shanks said, “but look what I found on the system.”

A little instant message window was sitting in the corner of the screen. There were entries still sitting on it.

“One of them was talking to someone,” I said. One of the names read RVALLE0107. “Rebecca Valle. The mother.”

“The killer must have shut it down, but didn’t exit out completely. He probably thought he got rid of it.”

Leaning closer, I read the tiny text on the screen.

If I were you
, the voice nagged,
I wouldn’t inquire too deeply.

Shaking my head, I stepped away from the screen.

“We need the rest of the conversation,” I said. “Everything on this computer.”

“It’s gone,” Shanks said.

“Gone?”

“Either the victim wiped it when she heard the intruder, or the killer did it. Maybe the techs can pull something off of it, but everything’s gone. The message pane just happened to still be up. If you shut it off, you’ll lose that too.”

“Craigh,” I said out loud. “Or Craig H? He knew. He knew what was happening over here.”

I headed back out to the living room, Shanks in tow.

“Reece, did anyone else call this in?” I asked.

“Someone else?”

“Besides our witness, did you receive any other calls about a possible disturbance over here?”

“No.”

I turned to Roger, the witness, who was still sitting with the officers.

“Does the name Craig mean anything to you?” I asked. “Craig H? Or H Craig?”

“Harold,” he said. “He’s a friend of Becca’s. I’ve seen him around.”

Harold Craig.

He’s in trouble
, the voice said.
You need to get over there.

“Shanks, we need an address for Harold Craig. . . .”

“Are you okay?” Shanks asked in my ear.

“We’ve got to go,” I said.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m so tired. . . .” I whispered.

“I know, Faye,” he said. “We’re going to get him. We’ll do it together, got it?”

He put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me. It was the second time that day he had touched me like that. It felt firm and reassuring. Somehow, it made me feel like what he said was true, and that we would succeed, and that when we did, everything would be okay and I would finally get to sleep.

Heinlein Industries was situated well outside the city limits, taking an hour even by bullet train to get there. It got dark early that time of year. The sky had turned gray already. As the rail approached, the complex was visible in the distance like a huge disc cut out of the suburbs that surrounded it. It was as if a comet had struck there, leaving nothing but black glass. Only when you got closer could you begin to make out the flat, rectangular structures there, but Heinlein was built largely down, not up. It kept low to the ground, hidden behind the security fence and guard posts that surrounded it.

I picked up a car and headed in through the maze of narrow streets. The structures there were tightly packed, built from sturdy concrete that was now weathered and defaced. Businesses tapered off as the main road crossed the perimeter and gave way to VP Industrial, which was Heinlein’s main campus. VP stood for Verhoven-Pratsky, the names of the facilities’ two primary donors, but everyone called it Voodoo Proper. I opened a channel back to headquarters.

The whole first half mile was an open expanse that went around the entire park as far as I could see, and from the signals I was picking up, my vehicle was being tracked from several sources as I approached. Warning signs were posted along the way, threatening everything from prosecution to live fire as the inner fence loomed closer. The facility underground was deep enough to withstand a missile strike, and the airspace over the campus was a designated no-fly zone; I had no doubt the guards would shoot if provoked.

Heinlein is instituting a security lockdown
, Noakes said.

Got it.
Luckily, they had enough to distract them today.

The park had a guard station, which wasn’t unusual, but unlike some places, this one had a fence and, from what I could see, it enclosed the whole park. I zoomed in on the warning sign bolted to the nearest pylon; it promised a lethal voltage.

As I approached, I felt my phone go off, but before I could see who it was, the signal cut and the phone went dead. A second later, a message appeared in front of my eyes as the JZI got an override communication.

“Welcome to Heinlein Industries,” I said to myself as the words faded.

I pulled up to the guard and rolled down the window. He was a thick-necked man in uniform who wore a badge. He peered down at me over the bulletproof shield.

“Can I help you?” he asked. I didn’t dare use the scanner, but I could see a faint bulge under his jacket. I could also see a shotgun racked against the wall next to him.

“Agent Nico Wachalowski,” I said. “They should be expecting me.”

The guard peered down at my breast pocket and scanned the badge through the material. After a couple seconds, he nodded.

“Yes, they are, sir,” he said. “Go right on through. The layout of the place can be a little confusing, so I’ll transmit a marker to your GPS. Just follow it down to the parking area and take the elevator up. A representative will be waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

The guard arm rose, and I followed the marker toward the collection of squat, rectangular buildings. All things considered, I was glad for the guidance, because the park was huge and nothing was marked. I headed down into a short tunnel, which took me to a parking area.

From the garage, I took an elevator up. The doors opened and I stepped out into a dimly lit lobby that looked deserted. My footsteps echoed lightly as I made my way to a large, curved reception desk with an empty chair behind it.

“Hello?”

I saw several red points of light in the shadows near the ceiling. Cameras were watching me. There were two glass doors with badge readers that led inside, and a phone mounted on one wall.

I was beginning to wonder if I had the right place when a man in a suit appeared behind one of the glass doors. He was about my age, with wavy, graying hair, and dressed in an expensive suit. He noticed me as he held his badge up to the scanner.

“Agent Wachalowski?” he asked as he scooted through the door. He had an easy, salesman’s charm, and when he smiled, crow’s-feet formed at his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Hi, I’m Bob MacReady. I am so sorry,” he said, stepping forward and shaking my hand. “I thought I could beat you here. As you can see, we don’t get casual visitors.”

He held out a clip-on visitor’s badge and I put it on, causing him to smile like I’d just performed a trick.

“Excellent,” he said. “Come on, we can talk in my office.”

He buzzed us in and led me at a brisk pace through a maze of cubicle areas and narrow corridors. Unlike the lobby, the inside was brightly lit with flat electric light. The area we passed through was huge but oddly quiet. Occasional voices rose over the hum of the climate-control system and the constant murmur of hundreds of fingers as they worked keypads. Along the far wall was a wide glass panel that looked in on some kind of laboratory. Men and women dressed in clean suits worked over racks of equipment that seemed to merge together into an organized mass of shiny silver tanks, tubes, and electronics. I didn’t recognize any of it. One of the men inside noticed us, and watched me pass.

By the time we arrived at MacReady’s office, I was thoroughly lost. He opened the door and I stepped into the small space, which was dominated by a wooden desk with a pair of computer monitors sitting on it. On the walls behind the desk hung diplomas and certificates, including one for a doctorate in applied cybernetics. Shelves ran along each wall, stacked tightly with technical specifications and texts. The air smelled like old coffee and body odor.

“Please sit down,” he said, closing the door behind us. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.”

He got behind his desk and casually switched on a noise filter. I sat down across from him.

“This is about the bombing, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Not directly.”

“News traveled quickly here, especially once it became known that a revivor had triggered the device. You do understand it wasn’t one of ours?”