Origins (Remote) (18 page)

“Let’s eat first,” she said. “I’m too hungry to talk right now.”

With the sausage done and set out on paper towels soaking up the grease, Cassie turned her attention to the eggs. “These would be better with whole milk,” she said, giving Breed another frown, a look he took to be an indictment. Eventually the eggs found enough consistency and she liberally sprinkled cheese on top, waited a few minutes and with a deft flip of the spatula, folded them over. More cheese sprinkled on top and allowed to melt completed things. By the time it was done both Ronnie and Breed were convinced Cassie was right. The meal came first.

Cassie
flipped the omelet onto a plate, deftly divided it into three sections, handing one to each of the waiting men. “You really need more stuff here,” she said. “When I make this at home I like to throw in some ham, mushrooms, even tomatoes if I’ve got them. A dash of vanilla doesn’t hurt either.”

Breed had a mouthful and couldn’t reply immediately. When he’d chewed and swallowed he said, “It’s my brother’s place. He only comes every couple of days.” Ronnie was working his way through the food on his plate at a furious place. As well as they had eaten at the college breakfast, lunch had been a quick hot dog at the park and it seemed like forever since his stomach was full. He wolfed his way through the eggs, eating four pieces of toast along the way. He got up to make more.

Finally, Breed finished, pushing his plate to the center of the table. From what he had seen, these were two pretty average kids. The boy seemed to be the quiet one, watching the girl for cues, letting her take the lead. After seeing the way she’d handled herself at the park he wasn’t surprised. Beneath the head of brown hair and the blooming woman was one hell of a personality. He was surprised when the boy began talking first.

“We can see things,” Ronnie said, “things other people can’t see.” He paused for a few seconds, trying to decide how to proceed. From there he launched into a story the reporter had a hard time believing. From their initial meeting with the men who purported to be offering scholarships, their discovery of the CIA connection, the remote viewing sessions, the discovery of Thorne and his intentions, and the connections to the military, Ronnie took him through step by side.
Cassie said little, nodding her head at times, but seemingly content to let the boy take the lead on this. Breed had little doubt of her stepping in if he got off kilter, but his story was straightforward and clear, if incredible.

Ronnie finished his story, waiting for the reporter’s reaction. Breed had no idea what to say. It was the most bizarre thing he’d ever heard. Still, he couldn’t deny the seriousness of the situation. His first reaction was to think these kids were nuts. His second was to think back to the scene at the Gilmore’s, one man dead on the floor, another near death. There were two men dead in a burned house, another bleeding in a parking lot. At the center of it all, two kids he found himself growing to like. They seemed somehow matter of fact about the whole thing, the girl especially. While Ronnie was talking she’d gone back to the bedroom, found a rubber band. She was busily pulling her hair back into a ponytail while Ronnie was talking, the rubber band in her mouth. Breed had seen his niece do the same thing a hundred times. Her hair fixed to her satisfaction, she looked across the table at Breed.

“So,” Cassie said, a smile spreading across her face, “Right now you’re thinking we’re nuts and wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. Is that about right?”

Breed folded his arms, cocked his head. “It’s a pretty unbelievable story. But then again, it’s not hard to see something weird is going on. As a reporter I’m asking myself how I can verify any of this. I just can’t call up the CIA and ask them if they’ve got a secret program going on can I?”

Cassie laughed and leaned forward, both elbows on the table. “I don’t think they’d like that. But I think Ronnie and I can prove at least part of it to you. Don’t you think so, Ronnie?”

Carl Woods spent most of his trip to the camp running game plans through his head. His first instinct had been to get a unit or two out there, keeping the kids on site before they could slip away again, or be found by whoever was looking for them. Instinct kept him from taking any action. The reporter had heard the story first, bringing him in, but Woods had a reluctance to involve anyone else. To begin with, he couldn’t justify anything. They might just be kids, scared and running. On the solid chance that they were in real danger he didn’t want too many people involved with knowledge of their whereabouts. Driving through the darkness of Highway 90, he unconsciously checked his weapon under his arm, clicked his high beams, and picked up speed. Traffic was done for the night. A single pair of headlights behind him the only vehicle on the road.

Thirty minutes after the phone call he came up on the Cup a Joe sign, turned into the shell driveway, parking behind Breed’s car. The reporter came out on the porch, waving him around to the back stairs. He made the climb, went in the door and found himself looking at Ronnie Gilmore and
Cassie Reynold. The girl was sitting at the table, watching with an intense gaze. She looked none the worse for wear. The boy was washing dishes at the sink. He turned when Woods came in, a wary expression on his face, looking ragged but healthy and unhurt.

“You need to call your families,” Woods said. “They’re worried about you.”

The girl shook her head. She was still watching him closely and Woods had the uncanny feeling that she was assessing him in some way, feeling him out. “We can’t,” she said, “Not yet anyway. There are some things we have to talk about first. As long as we’re out and running around our families are safe. They want us to go home. It would make things easier for them.”

“Who?” Woods said.

Cassie looked over at the boy. He had finished with the dishes, placing them in the drying rack next to the sink. He was watching the girl in turn and Woods caught some message passing between them. Cassie nodded her head at the boy and he took a chair at the table, turning it around, leaning with his elbows on the seat back. Breed took his own chair, motioning for Woods to sit down. “This is going to take a while,” he said. “You better sit down because it’s a long story.”

Thorne’s diligence was paying off. Covering every base left him with a two man team assigned to watching Carl Woods. They had been sitting in a small diner across the street from the parking lot at the police building, drinking coffee and drawing the ire of a waitress who wasn’t going to make any money off of free refills. They arrived just after dark, sliding into a booth and ordering a meal to begin with, a greasy combination of eggs and sausage that was barely edible. Since then they had worked a rotation, one leaving and checking out the neighborhood, stretching his legs while the other kept an eye on the lot and the detective’s car. Four hours into it the waitress asked how long they planned on staying. One man slipped her a twenty, and she left, muttering to herself.

Both were sitting in the booth when Woods came hustling out of the building, got in his car and tore out of the lot. The pair scrambled out of their seats, got in their vehicle parked out front, just managing to keep him in sight as he made the turn toward the interstate. The passenger called in the movement as they made their way to through the city. Reaching the barren outskirts of the city the driver fell back, keeping the taillights of the detective’s car in sight as they wound down the highway, passing dark fishing camps and the occasional restaurant. When the lights flared ahead of him he accelerated, passing the detective as he pulled toward a house set on pilings against the water. Another radio transmission to Thorne gave them their instructions.

“We didn’t expect you to believe us, Detective,”
Cassie said. “We didn’t expect Mr. Breed here to believe us either. That’s why we wanted you both here.” She got up and moved over into the small living room, taking a seat on the couch. Ronnie went with her, bringing his chair. The reporter still sat at the table, Woods moving into the living room with the girl. “We knew we would have to convince you. But ask yourself if you can think of any reason why all these things are happening if we’re not telling the truth?”

Woods had no answer for that. These kids were in a bad situation no doubt about that. He was finding it more difficult to accept the incredible story this girl was telling as to why they were in trouble. Experience taught him that things were usually much more mundane. Either these two had an incredible imagination or they thought he was stupid enough to buy their story. They didn’t appear to be stupid. To the contrary he found them to be exceptionally sharp, speaking clearly and thoughtfully. The boy tended to be a little more emotional. The girl kept herself in check, maintaining an even tone even when speaking of the preparation in her Aunt’s house and the shooting in the parking lot. She spoke the same way now.

“We’re going to give you proof. Then we’ll talk about what we’re going to do.”

“How are you going to do that?” Breed asked.

“Do you have a picture in your wallet?” Cassie asked, “Something I can look at?”

Breed reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He selected a photograph, a studio portrait of his brother and his family taken two years ago. He handed it over and
Cassie took it, looked at it and held it in her hand. She leaned back on the sofa, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Ronnie was watching carefully. He had seen her do this once before in her Aunt’s house when they first caught their glimpse of Thorne and his operation. Doing it himself it was easy to get lost. You didn’t realize the effect it could have on people. The room was quiet while they waited. Outside the air was still buzzing with the background sounds of insects, a noise that carried lightly into the room.

Cassie could feel herself breathing slowly, her heart slow down. She relaxed against the sofa. Something inside of her, what she thought of as her real self, began to slip away. The talent was becoming more controllable but at the same time she felt its growing power. Taming it required total concentration. She moved her fingers on the face of the photograph. A thread of connection began to form and she willed it into substance drawing from within and from some unseen pool of energy. The connection grew stronger. Her senses heightened, the air in the room lightened, her skin grew a slight buzz. Behind her eyelids a light formed, patterns began to emerge. From a distance she saw a small house, red slate roof, hedges lined the driveway and passed across the front below the windows.

Her breathing got heavier as she moved closer in her mind, following the picture behind her eyes. There was a car in the driveway, a red station wagon with a school sticker across the rear window. As she watched a young girl passed in front of the window, her form outlined by a light in the rear. There were numbers by the side of the door, painted on a mailbox, and she read them off. “Forty seven sixty seven,” she said, “Forty seven sixty seven.” and continued on. She was standing at the window looking into a living room. A television set was on, bookcases lined up on either side with a row of knickknacks across the top, dancing figures. On the sofa a heavyset man sprawled, one hand stuck in the waistband of his pants. Laughter burst from the TV. A slight woman sitting in an upholstered chair turned and said something to the man.
Cassie moved into the room.

Breed was visibly shocked when
Cassie spoke out loud. The numbers she intoned were the address numbers of his brother’s house in Metairie. He watched as the girl seemed to withdraw even as she sat on the couch. The hair on his arms stood up. It seemed to him as if something had moved into the room. Woods was fidgeting as he looked on, his face impassive. They watched as Cassie picked up her arm as if reaching for something, dropped it down again. She was breathing heavily now as if physical exertion was draining her despite the lack of movement.

Deep into the scene,
Cassie moved across the room, stopping on the wall between the living room and kitchen. There was a picture of a young man in an Air Force uniform hanging ever so slightly crooked. Without thinking she moved to straighten it. The man on the sofa turned, looked back at his wife, giving her a puzzled look. Cassie could hear his voice in the distance. “What was that? Is Jennie still up?” he said. The woman responded with something Cassie couldn’t hear. She saw the walls begin to bend, her grip on the scene peeling away. The thread connecting her began to dissipate. She released her hold, something akin to letting go of a rope, and the movement back into herself was smooth, a motion that was both exhilarating and terrifying. She opened her eyes.

“Did you get the address?”
Cassie asked, looking at Breed. “Your brother’s a big guy. His daughter is named Jennie. She goes to some kind of private school, I didn’t get the name. There’s a picture of a soldier on the wall but it’s not quite straight. They were watching something on TV, some kind of comedy show.”

Breed said. “I have to use the phone.”

Thorne and his men were running at full steam. Units were moving to cover the highway on both sides of the house. To the south they placed themselves at the foot of the Chef bridge, the only way back into the city. On the north side the bridge over the Rigolets was also covered, his team taking refuge in the shadow of a boat house fifty yards off the road. An old pickup rattled past the camp, moving slowly enough to scout the scene in the darkness. Both cars were still there. Thorne knew the reporter and Woods had a working relationship. Breed calling in the detective complicated matters but in the end it was still a workable scenario. The area was sealed off as well as it could be. Pulling them together he gave his final instructions.

“We’re going to come in from both sides. Nobody gets out. I’ll be in the front. They can’t go anywhere from the back.” He consulted a hand drawn map in his hand. The two adjoining camps were dark and they were working under the assumption that both were empty. Access to the target area would be from the sides, an entry man and a cover man working their way in from each. Communication would be kept by radio, no voice over the air unless necessary. Thorne himself would hang back and cover the highway in the event anyone escaped the net. “The kids are what we want. The reporter and the cop are expendable. Do what you have to do. We’ll work out a cover story afterwards.” With that he waved his men into motion.

Breed and Woods had taken to the back porch to smoke and talk. Both were smoking but neither was talking. The detective, despite Breed’s amazement, was unconvinced after Cassie’s performance. He was convinced now. Ronnie had done his turn by describing the backyard of the home in which Woods’ parents still lived, from the hand cranked well in the back to the remnants of the underground shelter the detective’s grandfather had built with his own hands in the early 50’s. A battered photograph of his parent’s had been the only item necessary. The boy had even described his father, sleeping in bed with an oxygen tank nearby. Woods’ father had been in failing health lately but even he didn’t know that things had gotten that bad.

“So,” Breed eventually said, “I don’t think we can help but believe them now, can we?” The reporter felt both elation and a sense of loss. He had covered some fantastic stories in his time. This wouldn’t be one of them he knew. The powers that be would never let anything like this hit the press. He could threaten them with publication of what he knew, but in doing so he would ruin the lives of
Cassie and Ronnie, putting his own life in danger in the process. Still, it was worth a try even if he got shot down by his editors, or worse, by the CIA. It was worth a try. A story like this could put him in the big time. He was thinking quickly now. If he could get this story with enough facts behind it into the hands of the New York papers, or the Washington Post, it might be enough to buy him some protection. Right now the key was keeping the kids under wraps until that could happen.

Woods had his own thoughts. “These are serious people, Breed.” He flicked his cigarette off the porch into the weeds. “You’re thinking you can use this to make your career aren’t you?” Shaking his head he tried to bring the reporter down to earth. “I’ve got a buddy that was spent some time overseas. He was working intelligence in the army, working out of Saigon. The CIA went into a village he was investigating and killed everyone. Men, women, children. If we do get out you don’t have a chance of getting this thing in print. They’ll kill you before that happens.” He pointed inside to the living room where he could see
Cassie and Ronnie still talking. “Them too. Especially them.”

Breed shook his head. He didn’t want to let go of the chance. “That was overseas. It was in a war. Now we’re talking the kidnapping of U.S. citizens on American soil. They wouldn’t dare do anything like that over here if we’ve got enough evidence to back up the story.”

“That’s the point. You won’t have enough evidence. What have you got? Two kids they can disappear in a heartbeat.”

“What about the dead man at Ronnie’s house? The men at the Hoffman’s? The guy in the hospital? The shooting at the lakefront? If we throw all that at them the exposure will keep them safe.”

“None of that can be tied together.” Woods said. “The Aunt’s house was robbed. The guy at Ronnie’s got shot trying to rob the place. The lakefront? Common everyday robbery attempt.” He lit another cigarette, looked out over the water. A light breeze was blowing in off the lake, pushing water against the shore almost underneath their feet. Woods was looking to the south when a tongue of flame blew out towards the water and an explosion ripped through the night.

Gene Fontenot was a fisherman at heart. His piece of property had been in the family since the early 1900’s, bought by his grandfather as a young man. Two generations had grown up along the little strip of land that occupied the space between Lake Catherine and Highway 90. Gene inherited the land when his father died of cancer in 1965. His occupation was listed as fireman on his tax form, he’d spent ten years working for the New Orleans Fire Department, an occupation he had chosen not only for the benefits but for the opportunity for time off. He worked three days straight, sleeping in a fire house in the 7th District for the seventy two hours he was on duty, then driving out to the camp, where he kept the Betty, a 28-foot shrimping boat named after his mother.

With a full moon set to rise at three in the morning, Gene set his alarm clock for two, going to bed before the sun went down. His place was located fifty yards from the Breed place on the city side. His presence on weekdays when most folks were at work had made him the unofficial watchdog of the neighbors. Crime was low but there were still the occasional prowlers looking for outboard motors, fishing equipment, or anything carelessly left under a raised camp or in an unlocked shed. He had spent time over at the Breed place, drinking beer with the reporter’s brother on the weekends he wasn’t working. He also knew the sounds of the night. Sleeping in his room above the water he woke up to a full bladder. He made his way to the bathroom. A small window over the toilet looked out over the water and the thirty yards or so of space between his camp and the water. As he relieved himself he saw two crouching figures making their way at a slow pace across his backyard. They were a quarter of the way across as he reached his shotgun.

By the time he had it loaded and reached the back door they were halfway through his yard. Throwing open the back door with a bang, Fontenot stepped out on the back porch. He set the shotgun against his shoulder, pointing it just above the heads of the two figures. The warning shot blasted out into the night, illuminating the shocked faces of the men below him. “Don’t move you sons of bitches.” They both moved. One dropped to his knees holding out his arm. A bang a flash and a buzzing sound to his left sent Fontenot sprawling back into his trailer.