Influx (19 page)

Grady saw lights passing by outside, but after a moment of silence, the SUV thundered down onto its front right corner, doing cartwheels as the armored windows spidered and the vehicle frame twisted around them. Airbags fired, but they barely got out of their cases against the nanocloud—instead, they were forced outward against the doors, blasting two off their hinges.

But through it all, Grady and the men around him floated in airy isolation, completely insulated from the shock of these impacts within the nanofog. Grady felt as though he were watching a hologram unfold all around him.

The Escalade tumbled through another chain-link fence and across a grassy lot until it impacted against a tree—bringing the vehicle to a sudden, violent stop.

Then there was relative quiet as dirt and pieces of debris rained down around the crash.

They had landed right side up at least.

But what now? Grady was still entombed in this bizarre material. He nonetheless felt himself shift in his seat against his seat belt. The moment he tried to expand the movement, he felt the nanomaterial lock him in place again.

Grady tried to recall Chattopadhyay’s advice—which had been woefully brief. But what did he say to do after the material deployed?

There was renewed muttered cursing near his ear . . .

“Grady. You’re fuckin’ dead . . .”

Move slowly toward the exit.
That’s what Chattopadhyay had told him. Grady tried to slowly move his hand—and the nanomaterial relented. But the moment he sped up his movement, it locked in on him again.

It was like sheer-thickening liquid then. It would resist rapid deformation but allow slower movement. Grady surmised that once coded to his chemical or genetic signature, this nanomaterial only allowed the cloud’s owner to move slowly—and all other objects would be held fast. Very interesting stuff indeed . . .

Grady concentrated on moving slowly, and sure enough the material permitted motion. It felt like he was encased in a breathable clear gelatin as he moved, but he could move. In a few moments he had his seat belt unbuckled. He rolled slowly toward the right-side door and noticed one of the Morrison clones staring daggers at him through the nanofog. The man couldn’t even move his lips.

“Fuckin’ dead, Grady . . .”

Grady slowly gave him the finger. Then, as he slid past, Grady paused. He could see the guard’s suit coat was partially open, the man’s hand frozen in the act of grabbing a weapon from its holster.

Grady moved his lips slowly. “Nice try.”

Grady also noticed the edge of the man’s wallet in his coat pocket, and he slid his hand inside, encompassing it with his own hand as he withdrew it. It was still a difficult item to draw out, but after a few moments, he fumbled with the handle of the passenger door, pushed slowly outward, and finally slid through the edge of the nanofog as if being born into the world all over again.

Grady tumbled out face forward onto what felt like grass. He rolled back onto his feet and was relieved to discover he could move freely now. He looked back with concern at the open doorway of the armored SUV. The nanofog made it look like the occupants were doing major bong hits inside—except that the smoke didn’t budge. He could see the guards still immobilized. Good.

A glance around showed that the Escalade had hurtled across a local street onto a corporate lawn in front of a ten-story office building—most of which was dark at this hour. The Escalade had plowed through a section of chain-link fence there and slammed into a small oak tree—a surprisingly small one, considering it had stopped the armored vehicle cold and smashed the front end in. The entire length of the vehicle was mangled, its engine steaming and the electrical system dead.

Grady sucked in the fresh air and scanned the streets around him. He’d done it. He was free for the first time in several years. Free of the torture. Free of the cell where he’d thought he’d end his days. He looked up at the night sky. The stars.

No time.

He took another deep breath of the night air—then a quick glance at his earthbound surroundings.

No cars or people nearby. He could hear the occasional hiss of traffic passing on the highway below. Downtown Detroit was less populated than he’d thought it would be.

He couldn’t let his synesthesia distract him. There’d be time for reveling in freedom when he’d actually escaped.

There was a concrete outbuilding close at hand, slathered with graffiti, but it looked sealed up and dark. He was about forty feet off the road, and not easily visible even from the exit ramp.

Grady opened the guard’s wallet and was pleasantly surprised to see currency. The BTC apparently issued them petty cash for operations like this. It felt like a decent wad, dollars and foreign currency.

Grady tossed the man’s wallet and pocketed the bills. He moved behind the concrete shed, putting it between him and the road as car lights approached on the highway exit.

Damn!
He’d almost forgotten the most important thing: Grady dropped down onto the grass and pulled off his left shoe. He felt around until he came up with the diamond q-link tracking device that was supposed to be in his spine. It caught the reflected light in a beautiful way, briefly mesmerizing him. He closed his hand around it. Better to dispose of it someplace that would delay his pursuers.

Another cautious glance around, and Grady ran along the base of the nearby office building, keeping to the shadows. He soon passed an exhaust vent for a subterranean parking structure and carefully slipped the q-link through a metal screen. He heard it ping against the sides of the shaft as it fell into the depths.

That ought to buy a little time.

He continued around the corner of the building and looked out across a broad stretch of empty parking lots rimmed with chain-link fencing and unkempt grass. He saw a brick church and some houses a couple hundred meters away. The whole area was flatter and emptier than he would have liked. He’d remembered cities being busier.

About a quarter mile away he could see what looked like a large well-lit conference center with parking structures. A line of buses idled there with their lights on.

Grady brushed the grass off and straightened his clothes. He started walking swiftly toward the huge building, approaching along a deserted service road. He glanced back but didn’t see anyone giving chase yet.

As he walked, Grady pulled the wad of cash from his pocket and furtively flipped through it as he passed under a streetlamp. Euros, some Asian bills, but also about three hundred some-odd in U.S. twenties. He slid the bills back into his pants.

So Richard Louis Cotton had been arrested? And from the way Grady’s guards had been talking, the FBI didn’t seem to be aware of the truth. He could feel the video projection device Chattopadhyay had given him in his right shoe, slipped in like a small arch support. He had to find somewhere to take that evidence. No doubt there would be a Detroit field office for the FBI, but Grady didn’t relish the idea of staying so close to BTC headquarters—wherever in town that was. It couldn’t be far. And no doubt they’d be crawling all over this place with seriously advanced technology once the guards managed to extricate themselves from the nanofog—or when they were noticed missing.

Some minutes later Grady hopped a chain-link fence and crossed a darkened parking lot to the side of the conference center. He then followed a sidewalk back toward the brightly lit entrance of the building.

As he approached, he could see children and adults in outlandish costumes standing in groups near the buses—girls in spandex tights and futuristic helmets, guys wearing robes and prosthetic noses, covered in blue makeup or wearing plastic armor as they clutched imitation laser rifles. Still others moved about in street clothes, smiling and laughing as they took pictures of cosplaying conference attendees. Grady noticed everyone wore badges on lanyards with a logo that read “Space-Con” in shimmering letters. Promotional banners for sci-fi games and TV shows hung along the conference center walls and from crossbeams.

Hundreds more people poured out through the conference center doors. They all looked tired as they ambled toward a line of idling buses. Cars streamed out of the nearby parking structure. It was probably close to midnight.

Grady moved along with the crowd, passing down the line of buses. He tried to divine where each bus was going, but they had only numbers that glowed in various hues to Grady, caressing him with their geometry. He tried to stay focused on reality as he approached a bus driver standing near an open door. A conference attendee dressed as a tentacled alien chatted nearby, smoking a cigarette. The driver looked up at Grady.

Grady nodded. “What time we get back?”

“The Grand’s just cross town, man.”

“Oh. Wrong bus, sorry.”

“Which number you looking for?”

Grady started walking. “No, I got it.” He pointed. “It’s over here. Sorry.”

Grady walked a couple buses down to another driver. “When do we get in?”

“Which stop? Lansing or East Lansing?”

“East.”

“About one fifteen.”

“Thanks.” Grady moved to board the bus.

The driver pointed. “Your badge. I need to see your badge.”

“Oh, I lost it.”

The man shook his head. “You need the badge to get on the bus.”

“But I lost it.” Grady went through his pockets.

“What do you mean you ‘lost’ it? You shoulda just left it on your neck.”

“Look . . .” Grady pulled some money from his pocket. “How about sixty bucks?”

The man shook his head. “Just go find your badge, but you got to hurry because we’re leavin’ in a few minutes.”

“It’s been a long day. I mean, let me just pay for the ride.”

“I don’t sell tickets, man. Why can’t you eggheads just follow rules?”

“Here, consider it a tip. Just let me get home.”

The guy hesitated but then furtively took the money. “Go on. Get in.”

Grady moved swiftly up the steps and down the aisle. The bus was surprisingly full, with worn-out-looking con attendees leaning against one another, eyes closed. A few still had cosplay costumes on, and Grady heard snatches of their conversation as he passed by, ducking under a plastic robotic arm.

“You know that pulse rifle isn’t canon for a Provincial Scout, right?”

“The graphic novel was better than the show, but the book was better than the graphic novel.”

Grady took the first open seat, across from a young couple dressed in matching sets of foam power armor. They were sleeping, gauntleted hands intertwined. Between them, also asleep, was a boy of about six, dressed in a monk’s robe.

For the first time since his escape, Grady exhaled fully and felt the tension dissolve. The young family’s contentment helped him relax.

And all at once he noticed something about the people around him. It was as though they knew, somewhere deep down, that the future was overdue.

The power armor. The laser rifles. The robots.

They thought they were pretending, but Grady, alone among them, knew that the future had already happened. It was as though they sensed it. They’d re-created that future in foam and rubber—determined to live in it.

A slight grin stole across his face as he appraised them, and Grady no longer had any doubt. Hedrick was wrong. These people were ready for the future. Impatient even.

J
oin us, Denise?”

Special Agent Denise Davis turned to see Thomas Falwell and Dwight Wortman in the lobby of the Dirksen Federal Building in downtown Chicago. She smiled. “You look happy.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? Cotton will be convicted, and we’ll get to move on with our lives.”

“Amen to that. You’ll probably get a promotion.”

He grimaced. “You mean my old job back.”

“Ah.”

They exited through the security station and onto Dearborn.

“Wallace said to keep our eyes peeled for Winnowers.”

Falwell waved it away. “The Winnowers don’t want to spoil the trial. Cotton’s reveling in the media spotlight. Can you believe the play it’s getting?”

“Even more reason.”

They were moving now through a rush-hour crowd on the sidewalk, following the rest of her team to a neon sign that spelled out “The Berghoff” in rolling script. The joint fronted half the block, and as the group entered the high-ceilinged tavern, they moved through a crowd to an oak bar with brass rails. Dwight had already scored a few stools.

“What are you guys having?”

Davis shouted, “Beer. And the first round’s on me.”

Some minutes later they clinked glasses of amber lager.

“To the end of a long, long road.”

“Hear, hear!”

As Davis looked into the eyes of her team, she felt content. She’d been on the Cotton case nearly seven years, Falwell ten. Remembering all the long hours, the poring through endless financial and travel records, all the boring details that investigative work entails—and then responding decisively when those rare moments of action came.

She truly cared about these people. And she respected them. It was nice to know that all their hard work was about to be rewarded.

Before long Davis placed her empty glass on the bar.

Dwight pointed. “Another, Denise?”

“Sure.” But she thumbed toward the back of the barroom. “Gotta hit the loo first.”

Dwight called after her, “Keep your head on a swivel.”

Falwell laughed. “Yeah, or we’ll come looking for you.”

She moved through the crowd of office workers toward the restroom sign. She had a mild buzz on, and things looked good. She remembered this feeling of camaraderie from army intelligence work. You might not be thrilled about the mission, but at least you were in it together.

In the restroom stall Davis daydreamed about a GS-13 Step 5 pay grade—maybe with a locality adjustment thrown in, if she could get transferred back to Denver. She might not have to live a long-distance relationship anymore. That meant serious plans. Life plans.

On her way out of the restroom a man of medium build in a sweatshirt and jeans blocked her path. He looked familiar—but not in a bad way. Not threatening. Where did she remember that face from? Perhaps a witness or juror? He had the vibe of a community college professor.

“Agent Davis?”

“Where do I know you from? If you’re connected to the trial, we shouldn’t be talking.”

“No. Agent Davis, I’m Jon Grady. One of Richard Louis Cotton’s bombing victims.”

Davis frowned. “None of Cotton’s victims survived.”

He stared back. “I know.”

That’s when Davis saw the intensity in the man’s eyes. The nervous glance behind him.

Davis stepped back and drew her Glock 17 pistol in a smooth motion, leveling it at his chest with a dual grip. “Hands!”

The man raised his hands in confusion. “I don’t know who you think I—”

“Shut up!” Looking past him, she realized her carelessness too late: The hallway had a bend. They were not visible to the barroom crowd.

I am an idiot.

“I need to talk to you, Agent Davis. I came a long way.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. Would you please stop pointing that gun at me?”

She didn’t lower it. “You just told me you’re dead. I’m not in the mood for crazy today.”

“I’m not crazy. Look, if you want, we can head back to the bar—and you can arrest me. That’s what I want you to do. I need your protection, and I can prove who I am.”

“And who is that exactly?”

“Jon Grady. My memory is a bit spotty, but I was the physicist that Richard Louis Cotton supposedly blew up in New Jersey a few years ago.” He became suddenly grim-faced. “Along with six other people.”

“Edison, New Jersey.” She thought on it. “Chirality Labs.”

He looked momentarily confused then nodded. “Yes. That was my company.”

She made a buzzer sound. “
Nnnnnttt.
Wrong. There were six victims total at the Chirality bombing, not seven.”

He looked confused again.

She kept the gun on him. “Let’s see ID.”

“I don’t have any identification. But I am Jon Grady. I can prove it, if you’ll let me.”

“You can’t be Mr. Grady because we found what was left of him and the others. So forgive me if I’m skeptical. Especially because I have a terrorist group out to kill me.”

“It’s not a terror group. It’s a rogue government agency. Something called the Federal Bureau of Technology Control.”

Davis felt the tension disappear. “Oh my God.” She lowered her gun. “Get the hell out of my face.”

“The BTC has been disappearing people like me for decades—inventors of disruptive technologies.”

“For decades. Well, they apparently didn’t disappear you because here you are accosting me outside the restroom.”

“I escaped. They were bringing me to their headquarters in Detroit to work on—”

“Detroit?”

He reacted to her dubious look. “Look, never mind that. I came here because I saw you on the news. Richard Cotton isn’t a terrorist; he’s an agent of the BTC.”

“Last warning. Leave. Now.”

“I need protection.”

“Fine. Call the Chicago police. You can explain it to them.”

“No.” The man looked panicked. “You’re the only one I trust. They said you
thought
you caught Cotton. That you had no idea what was really going on. That’s why I trust you.”

Davis had run into delusional paranoids before. Sadly, the legal system allowed a lot of them to run around on the streets because nobody wanted to pay for their treatment. And sensationalized criminal cases attracted them like moths to a porch light.

The man nodded as he apparently deciphered the look on her face. “Okay. All right. But do me this one favor.”

“No.” She started walking around him warily.

The man wrapped his hand around an empty beer glass on a shelf by the pay phone next to him. Then he let go and pointed at it. “My fingerprints are now on that glass. Run those prints. And”—at that point he tore a small clump of hair from his head, which he then dropped into the glass—“here’s a sample of my DNA.”

“Are we done?”

“Test them. I know it’ll take time, but once you confirm who I am, I need to talk with you. Meet me”—he thought hard for a few moments—“one week from today. I’ll be in the Mathematics Library at Columbia University in New York City—eight
A.M
. Sit at the table across from the big gray breaker box—near the windows.”

“That is not going to happen.”

“It will once you confirm who I am. Remember, eight
A.M
., one week from today. Columbia Mathematics Library. Next to the breaker box. Come alone.”

“No.”

He went to leave but turned around again, walking backward as he talked. “I know you don’t believe me, but I can tell you details about the Edison bombing scene that I couldn’t possibly know if I wasn’t there.”

“You mean like the wrong number of victims?”

“I’m telling you: there was a seventh person there that night. He was a Princeton physics professor who came to evaluate our work. Now that I think about it, I believe he worked for the BTC.” Grady looked frustrated as he tried to recall something. Then he glanced up. “A man named Kulkarni. Sameer Kulkarni. I haven’t seen him mentioned in the news accounts. He was there. Doctor Alcot recognized him.”

“Good-bye.” With that Davis left him behind.

The strange man disappeared into the barroom crowd as Davis headed toward the bar. Her team was there laughing over some just finished joke.

“I thought you guys were going to rescue me if I took too long.”

Falwell read the look on her face and snapped alert. “What happened?”

The rest of the team put their drinks down, suddenly serious.

She waved her hands. “Calm down. Just some nut job came up to me outside the ladies’ restroom—claimed he was one of Cotton’s dead victims.”

They all narrowed their eyes in confusion.

“Say what?”

Davis nodded. “He said the Winnowers are really a rogue federal agency. That it’s all a government conspiracy.”

Most of the team laughed and shook their heads.

But Falwell scanned the crowded bar. “Should we take the guy into custody?”

“We can’t grab every crazy person who comes out of the woodwork after I go on television.”

“Did he seem dangerous?”

“I wouldn’t have let him go if he did. Just a bit loony. Said there was a seventh victim at the Edison bombing scene—some Princeton physics professor.”

The others chuckled, but Falwell narrowed his eyes. “Dwight and I were going through the Edison bombing evidence last week with the prosecutor. Remember that extra tire print at the Edison scene—the one in the snow?”

She thought about it. “Yeah, but it didn’t lead to anything.”

“Right. The lab identified the tire—it was old. Not in common use nowadays.”

Dwight nodded. “175-SR14s.”

“Whatever—they were outdated. From the ’70s.”

Davis leaned against the bar. “So what’s your point? That matches the Winnower M.O. They used an old car.”

“Well, back then Dwight I spent a couple days reviewing traffic camera videos, and there was a car in the area that night that could have been old enough—a Mercedes.”

Dwight chimed in: “A 240D.”

“Right. A Mercedes 240D. And those came with SR14s as standard equipment.”

Davis nodded. “Okay. I remember, but the real owner was deceased.”

Falwell put his beer down. “Right. The family didn’t even know the car existed. And it hasn’t been seen since. Not even by license plate readers.”

She stared at him. “So what? The Winnowers used it to go to and from the attack, then dumped it.”

“That’s just it. The traffic cameras don’t have great resolution, but they showed only one person in the car—after the bombing.”

She contemplated this.

“Meaning in addition to Cotton and his group, someone else left the scene that night. And we never shared that detail about the extra tire tracks with the media.”

“You’re starting to worry me, Thomas.”

“I’m not saying the guy you saw is legit. I’m saying we may have a security leak in the federal prosecutor’s office.”

That got her attention. “Mistrial?”

“Cotton might be cooperating, but then again he might have other plans.”

Davis stared at Falwell for a few moments. And then she pushed through the crowd, headed back toward the restrooms. In the hallway just outside, she took a cocktail napkin and carefully retrieved the empty bar glass by the phone, inserting her fingers inside it, tipping it up onto her hand. She caught the lock of hair with her other hand as it fell out.

Falwell was right behind her.

She held up the glass. “Run the prints on this glass. Tonight. And I want a DNA test on this hair sample . . .” She passed the hair to him.

“Where did you get a hair sample?”

“He left it behind. Supposedly to prove who he was.”

“And if it matches a victim—what then?”

“It could be some scheme of Cotton’s to taint the evidence—and the case.” She pointed again at the hair. “DNA.”

“It’ll take five days at least. How big a problem you think this guy is?”

“Look, it’s probably nothing. But after all these years, I don’t want to take any chances. Do you?”

 • • • 

Davis stood looking over a criminologist’s shoulder in a cubicle at the crime lab in the FBI’s Chicago field office. It was past ten
P.M
. The tech clicked around a computer screen, marking points on an image from the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

The criminologist glanced back at her. “I found three different sets of fingerprints on your beer glass. Exhibits one and three show no IAFIS matches—or at least none with reasonable scores. But exhibit two gave us two candidate hits.”

“Show me.”

He clicked through a couple screens and a passport photo appeared in a window above the name “Jon Grady”—beneath that was a label reading “Deceased.”

Falwell glanced over at Davis. “That’s not good.”

The criminologist looked up at her. “You want to see candidate two? It’s a much lower score.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. Can you print that out for me?”

“Sure.” He clicked the mouse a few times, and they heard the laser printer by the door spit out a couple of pages.

“Thanks for the help. C’mon, Thomas.”

Falwell grabbed the pages as they headed for the elevators. He held up the printed photo. “This the guy?”

She nodded.

“So you met a ghost.”

She nodded.

“What does this do to the case?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“And what was this guy claiming?”

“He said they were disappearing inventors of disruptive technologies.”

“Who was?”

“A rogue federal agency.”

Falwell chuckled. “Sure.”

They got in the elevator and headed to the itinerant-agent floor, where they had offices for the duration of Cotton’s trial.

She leaned against the elevator’s back wall. “Well, it’s clearly fake. We found most of this Grady guy’s right arm at the Edison scene. We had a jawbone. Teeth. A shinbone. A partial tongue. All DNA matched. And we’ve got Richard Cotton on video preparing to kill him.”

“He’s up to something.”

“We’ll need those DNA test results the moment they come in. And let’s put out an APB on this Grady imitator. He couldn’t have gone far.”

“If he wanted to get arrested so bad, why didn’t he stick around? Why arrange a meeting all the way in New York?”