Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (10 page)

“I was supposed to rent a—” Skraling began.

“That’s already been taken care of, sir,” Craig cut him off.
 
“We’ve cancelled your reservation.”

They drove in silence, casual but intent at the same time.
 
In keyed-up silence they crept along the freeways, down the peninsula to the South Bay and the posh upscale community of Los Gatos in the forested hills southwest of San Jose.
 
Twinkling lights studded the dark hulking hills under the light from a first-quarter moon.
 

Craig felt his pulse speed up as it always did when he made a bust—though it had never been as exciting as shown on television.
 
In seven years with the Bureau, he had only ever drawn his handgun at the firing range.

The same had been true of his apprentice years working as an assistant for a private investigator in the East Bay.
 
Nothing like “Spenser” or “Magnum PI.”
 
Craig had spent most of his days sitting in a nondescript car or van watching a mark’s house to see if a man claiming disability benefits and supposedly laid up in agony actually slipped outside to play tennis down at the local court.
 
During those times Craig had read an enormous amount, flipping through books on patent law as he studied at Stanford, absorbing information, filing it all away.

Jackson turned into the steep driveway of Skraling’s tall, shake-shingled house built into the side of a rugged hill.
 
Under automatic mercury lights a smooth black asphalt driveway wound up to a flower-bedecked carport.

Outside lights blinked on from motion detectors.
 
The four men climbed out of the FBI car and walked up the driveway to the front door.
 
Craig turned Skraling around.
 
“Where are your keys?”

“In . . . my pocket.”
 
He fished out the keys, but Goldfarb took them from him and tried the lock.
 
When the door swung open they entered the sprawling custom house.
 
The marble floors gleamed.
 
Craig smelled furniture polish, cleaning chemicals; a housekeeper must have spruced up the place while Skraling was on vacation.

A beeping sound came from down the hall.
 
“What’s the combo on the burglar alarm?” Jackson asked.

Skraling didn’t answer.
 
Craig sighed.
 
“Look, Mr. Skraling, all you’ll accomplish is to alert your neighbors that you’re in trouble.
 
What do you think the police are going to do when they find you here with three FBI agents?”

Skraling closed his eyes and whispered, “9-9-2-7.”

Jackson disappeared around the corner and down the dim hall to find the numeric keypad on the wall near the thermostat.
 
Seconds later the beeping stopped.

Craig heard a crash, then Jackson cursed.
 
He reappeared around the corner, brushing off his pants.
 
“Ran into a table,” he said.
 
“The phone’s on it.
 
I think I bumped the answering machine.”
 
Craig looked at the agent, and knew Jackson had done the “accident” on purpose.

In the background a telephone answering machine started playing back recorded messages.

The answering machine clicked twice, then a voice started speaking in fast, excited tones.
 
Craig recognized the syrupy accent of Ompadhe.

“Mr. Skraling, some gentlemen from the Federal Bureau of Investigation came here today.
 
I know you won’t be arriving back until tonight.
 
I hope this gets you before they arrive.
 
Sir, they have shut down our operation, confiscated everything.
 
They had a search warrant and they say they found a great deal of evidence.”

Skraling opened his eyes.
 
He seemed about ready to cry.
 
“My lawyer,” he said hoarsely.
 
“Let me make a call.”

“That’s right,” said Craig.
 
“Go right ahead.”
 
Turning on the lights, he led Skraling past the hall which opened up into a kitchen with a living room beyond.
 
“Goldfarb, Jackson—get moving on his files.”

Skraling grabbed the portable phone and punched in the number for what must have been his lawyer.
 
Craig noted that it was programmed into the speed-dialer.

The CEO waited, listening.
 
“This is Skraling,” he said.
 
“I need to talk to Stein right now.
 
I know it’s late.”
 
He paused, then his shoulders sagged even more.
 
“Wednesday!
 
Well, how can I reach him?
 
There’s got to be a way to reach him.”
 
He listened again.
 
“No, I don’t want a damned junior partner.”

He gnashed his teeth, as if he wanted to bite the antenna off the phone.
 
“Oh, dammit all!” he said and, without hanging up, hurled the black plastic phone across the room where it struck the tile counter, rebounded once, and slammed to the floor.
 
It splintered and broke apart, the battery pack bouncing across the floor.

“Hey, take it easy,” Craig said, stepping toward him.

Skraling breathed deeper and deeper, hyperventilating.
 
He froze and then forced a glassy, hollow expression on his face as if he were layering it on with thick plaster.

“Please excuse me, I feel ill,” he said and walked stiff-legged down the hall.

“Just a moment, Mr. Skraling,” Craig said.
 
But Skraling moved faster with a jerky, hypnotized walk.
 
He ducked into one of the side rooms, a large study with a desk and computer and leather bound books on display along a back wall.

“What’s going on?” Goldfarb appeared behind him, his dark hair mussed.
 
Then, realizing Skraling was gone, “Oh, shit.”

“Mr. Skraling, I can’t allow you to—” Craig said, but the heavy oak door slammed in his face.
 
He heard Skraling push himself against the other side of the study door and the metal-on-metal scrape of a deadbolt lock clicking into place.

“Hey!” Goldfarb shouted.
 
Craig pounded on the door.
 
Inside, he heard desk drawers rattling, papers tossed about.

“Mr. Skraling, destroying evidence will only make things worse for you.
 
It can increase your sentence by as much as ten years, if convicted.”

“Make it worse?” Skraling hooted through the door then he just laughed and said nothing else.

Feeling stupid for letting himself get into this situation, Craig pounded on the door and rattled the knob, but it was shut tight.
 
He looked at Goldfarb; the other man spread his hands helplessly.

Craig pulled air through his teeth.
 
“Okay, let’s break it down.”

Together, they stepped back and took turns kicking at the deadbolt.
 
Craig slammed the heel of his black street shoe with all the force he could muster, then stepped back, feeling the jarring pain through his shin.

Goldfarb cracked with his own shoe at the door.
 
Craig tried again with his other foot.
 
Goldfarb tried a second time, and the jamb finally began to splinter.
 
The noises inside the study ceased.

“Come on out of there, Mr. Skraling,” Craig said.
 
“We can talk this out.”

He listened for an answer as Goldfarb poised himself for another kick at the door.
 
The only response he got from Miles Skraling, though, was a loud, high
pop
then a loose
thump
.

“Oh, my God!” Craig said.
 
Goldfarb let loose with all his strength, slamming his heel into the deadbolt.
 
Wood splintered.
 
The brass deadbolt protruded a from the jamb.
 
Craig threw his shoulder against the door, and finally the lock broke away.
 
The door popped open, letting him stumble into the too-silent study.

Craig caught his balance.
 
Goldfarb pushed in beside him.

Skraling lay slouched backward in the stuffed leather desk chair studded with a decorative rim of brass buttons.
 
His hand dangled beside the desk.
 
A small pistol lay on the hardwood floor, where the recoil had knocked it out of his hand.

The bullet had entered the back of his mouth, throwing him backward.
 
Red spatters were sprayed across the fine leatherbound volumes neatly arranged in his study library.

Jackson came running up.
 
The three agents spent a long time staring before they said a word to each other.

CHAPTER 10

Wednesday

Building 332—Plutonium Facility

Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory

Sitting alone at a table in the break room of the Plutonium Facility, Duane Hopkins opened his black metal lunchbox and withdrew a thermos of coffee.
 
After carefully unscrewing the cap he poured himself a cupful.
 
He rummaged in his lunchbox, taking out a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and a Twinkie.
 
He always ate half his lunch during the 10:30 break and ate the rest of it at noon.
 
He never spent money in the soda or snack vending machines.

He poked around to doublecheck what he had packed for himself, as if somehow hoping he would find a surprise there.
 
When he had first gotten married, Rhonda had always packed his lunches, but she had stopped putting in surprises after six months.
 
After Stevie was born a year later, she had gone away altogether, packing only a suitcase, taking the contents of their savings account, and leaving him a simple but eloquent note:
 
“I have my own life to live.”
 
She hadn’t signed it “Love Rhonda,” or anything.
 
Just left it on the gold-flecked Formica dinette table.
 
He had never heard from her again, not in ten years.

Sitting in his bright orange lab coat, Duane sipped some of his milk and carefully unfolded the waxed paper surrounding his sandwich.
 
He took one bite of the sandwich, feeling the sweet stickiness
goosh
on the roof of his mouth.

Then Ronald and his caveman buddies came in, talking too loudly, laughing like gorillas at each other’s stupid jokes.
 
Duane looked away and tried to become invisible, but Ronald headed directly over to him.

“Hey, Beavis, glad you could come to work today.
 
No special missions for the CIA?
 
No extra credit work for T Program?”

“Stop calling me that,” Duane said.

“Calling you what, Beavis?”

“That,” Duane said.
 
“It’s not my name.”

“Well, why not?” Ronald answered with a gap-toothed grin. “You’re a butthead, aren’t you?”
 
The three other guys with him laughed at that.

“I was just at T Program for a tour.
 
I took my son to the Virtual Reality chamber.”

Ronald raised his eyebrows.
 
“Well, excuuuuse me,” he said, lolling his head from side to side and raising his eyebrows in a sickening parody of Stevie’s cerebral palsy.

Ronald had bristly dark hair and a blurred blue tattoo of an eagle on his left forearm, visible because Ronald always rolled up the sleeves of his orange lab coat.
 
He flaunted his former Marine image, knowing full well Duane’s service in the Army.
 
Ronald occasionally made up stories about his days in ‘Nam, though Duane and most of the others knew that Ronald was too young ever to have been in the Viet Nam war—but no one would challenge him on it.

Ronald leaned forward, his breath stank of sour tobacco smoke; he was probably lighting up again in the bathrooms, even though the building was a no smoking facility.

“You sure they didn’t want to just run some secret experiments on you, Beavis?
 
Maybe run a special analysis to see why you’re such a wuss?”

“It was just a tour of the simulator chamber,” Duane said, putting his sandwich down.
 
In fact, that nice man Gary Lesserec had called him this morning, and Duane had been delighted to hear from him, remembering how much Stevie had enjoyed the VR demonstration.
 
He hadn’t understood Mr. Lesserec’s request, but Duane felt he owed the T Program man a big favor, so he was happy to promise the material Lesserec wanted.

Ronald picked up the Twinkie from Duane’s lunch box, tore open the cellophane and stuffed the sponge cake into his own mouth, dropping the wrapper to the floor.
 
Duane sat silently fuming.