Vapor (14 page)

As Ed Hooper pulled into the familiar driveway, he saw a virtual museum of environmentally friendly cars parked around the property. The vehicles, ranging from a 1917 Dual Power Model 44 Coupe to a 1972 Buick Skylark, exuded status, environmental commitment, and overwhelming smugness. A grin creased his visage. His car stuck out.

And not in a good way.

“Yes, I know it sounds crazy,” Hooper said into his wireless headset. “But I think we’re dealing with a conspiracy.”

“Ridiculous.” President Walters’ strained voice filled Hooper’s ear. “My cabinet wouldn’t betray me.”

“It’s not your entire cabinet.”

“Okay, half my cabinet.” The president exhaled. “I still don’t believe it.”

“You know Patricia Samuels? Barney’s wife?”

“Of course. She runs Fizzter Computers. She’s a genius.”

“And a former hacker. I studied the personnel files of everyone who had access to the Columbus Project’s systems. She’s the only one with the knowledge and skill set to engineer a theft of this type.”

“She’s a generous woman. Donates to over a dozen environmental organizations. She’d never do anything to hurt the Columbus Project.”

“It’s not just her. Have you heard of the Separative?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It came together years ago,” Hooper said. “Basically, it was a social group. Besides Patricia, nine other people belonged to it. Five of those people—Barney, Kate, George, Janet, and Bert—are in your cabinet.”

“So what?”

“Did you know they were lifelong friends before you brought them aboard?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did you pick them by yourself? Or did you have help?”

“Well, Barney said …” The president trailed off.

“That’s what I thought.”

“It doesn’t mean anything. I hate to say it, but that’s how government works. Positions aren’t based on merit. It’s all about who you know.”

“And they’ve known each other for years.”

“I think you’re wasting your time.”

“We’ll know soon enough. I’ll call later.”

Hooper touched his earpiece, cutting the connection. Then he continued up the steep driveway. He braked, halting his vehicle behind a gleaming 1906 Baker Landolet. Turning his air conditioner to full blast, he sat back and waited for a valet to approach him.

Outside, men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns milled about the front lawn. It was unusual attire for nine o’clock in the morning. But then again, Barney and Patricia Samuels were unusual people.

Hooper observed the guests. They were predominantly white and middle-aged. Minorities were scarce and no kids were present. They were obviously well-heeled and displayed impeccable manners. Yet, the general disdain with which they regarded the hired staff spoke volumes about their true characters.

In Hooper’s experience, most people fit into rather narrow socioeconomic categories. People rarely socialized outside those categories. If one wanted to infiltrate a group, it was a simple matter of adapting the appropriate personality dynamics. If one wanted to earn that group’s scorn, the opposite approach was required.

A man emerged from the Landolet. His jaw dropped as he caught sight of Hooper’s vehicle. Quickly, he got the attention of his spouse, a forty-year old woman dripping in elegant pearls. The woman, in turn, gave Hooper a disdainful look. Then she walked away, nose held high.

Hooper watched the guests for another minute. As expected, they were easy to read. Fabulously rich, yet hopelessly screwed up with all sorts of so-called first-world problems. They loved possessing wealth, but hated themselves for it. So, they sought to assuage their guilt by dressing up, going to fancy parties, and throwing money—always publicly—at the latest problem du jour.

They were soulless creatures in search of pity. But their vapid existence made such pity impossible. They were the type of people who raised money for faraway causes, but wouldn’t lift a hand to help out at a local soup kitchen.

A valet hopped into the Landolet and drove away. Hooper pulled up to a small parking booth. A bald man stood behind it. He sported rippling muscles beneath his tuxedo.

“Hey there.” Hooper grinned. “Is this the line for the car wash?”

The man gave Hooper a withering look. “Name?”

A small crowd of guests began to gather around Hooper’s vehicle. “Ed Hooper.”

The man consulted his list. “Do you have an invitation, Mr. Hooper?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“This is a private party. You and that … vehicle … aren’t welcome here.”

Hooper studied the man’s nametag. “I have business with your boss, Jim. Be a pal and call him for me.”

“What sort of business?”

“That’s between us.”

“Mr. Samuels is a busy man. He doesn’t take guests without an appointment.”

“A busy bureaucrat?” Hooper laughed. “No such thing.”

Jim leaned in the car window. “Please exit the premises immediately.”

“Or what?”

Jim’s fist lunged out. Hooper caught it and yanked the man’s wrist backward. Jim howled in pain.

Hooper opened the door and released Jim. The man crumpled to the ground, clutching his hand. Hooper paused to look at the guests. “Does anyone know where I can find Barney or Patricia Samuels?”

A woman screamed. The crowd, acting as one, backed up a few feet.

“I’m Barney.” The voice was weak and nasally. “And you’d better have a good explanation for this.”

Secretary of Energy Barney Samuels strode through the crowd. He stood an inch or two shy of six feet. His eyes were deep set and spread wide across his face. His nose was too big. His mouth was even more out of proportion. His leathery skin was tanned and seemed to shine in the sun. His body, soft and plump, was that of a lifelong desk jockey.

As expected, Samuels carried no weapons. However, the same couldn’t be said for the two bodyguards who flanked him.

“I’m Ed Hooper,” Hooper replied. “We have business to discuss.”

Samuels glanced at Jim, then back at Hooper. “No one’s gotten the best of him before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Samuels turned his attention to the gigantic orange vehicle in the driveway. “Interesting choice.”

Hooper gave him a wicked smile. He’d twisted arms until he’d gotten his hands on a 2003 Hummer H2. It was the most fuel-inefficient car he could find on such short notice. “I had to borrow it. You know, I wish they still made these babies. They don’t get good mileage but nothing beats them when it comes to pure testosterone.”

“A real man doesn’t spoil the environment just to make a point.”

Hooper shrugged. “Agree to disagree.”

“Is that why you’re here? Is this some kind of political statement?”

“Actually, I’m here to talk.”

“About what?”

“The Columbus Project.”

“You’re looking for funds?” Samuels arched an eyebrow. “Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. That particular well is tapped out.”

“I suppose that’s what happens when thirty-two billion dollars goes missing.”

Samuels twisted around. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen. I can take it from here. Please head to the far lawn for refreshments and drinks.”

Bodyguards gently guided people away from the Hummer. As the crowd dispersed, Samuels stepped closer to Hooper. “Who are you?”

“I’m a special agent with the U.S. Secret Service.” Hooper flashed his badge. “Specifically, I investigate financial crimes.”

“I don’t know what you think you know, but—”

“I think I know everything. I know about the Separative. I know how your wife used your access to the Columbus Project’s computer systems. I know how she added fraudulent paperwork to the mix. Where is Patricia anyway?”

“Entertaining guests.” Samuels mopped his brow. “And your accusations are ludicrous. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“You’re a hypocrite.” Hooper rose to his full height. “You claim to care about the environment but really, you’re just lining your own pockets at taxpayers’ expense.”

Samuels paused in mid-step. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no one is getting rich off the Columbus Project. That money is being used for exactly what the president intended, namely technology to improve the environment.”

Hooper arched an eyebrow.

“Look, the Columbus Project was based on the inherent flaws of capitalism.” Samuels exhaled. “Capitalism is a wonderful tool. It’s brought millions of people out of poverty. But it has serious downsides. The relentless focus on profits leads companies to damage the environment. That’s where government can play a role. We can redirect resources away from profits and toward more worthy causes, in this case the environment itself. That was—and still is—the purpose of the Columbus Project.”

“So, you didn’t keep the money,” Hooper said slowly. “You gave it to someone else.”

“We had an opportunity to change the world for the better. So, we took it.” He adopted a modest tone. “It was the right thing to do.”

“It must be nice to spend other people’s money while patting yourself on the back.”

Samuels’ lip curled. “I’d watch my tone if I were you, Mr. Hooper.”

“I’m really scared.” Hooper grinned. “Let me get to the point, Barney. I want money.”

Samuels blinked. “What?”

“I want one million dollars in cash.” Hooper grabbed Samuels’ bowtie and straightened it. “Otherwise, I’ll go to the press.”

“You think that scares me? I’m proud of what we did.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have done it in secret. I’ll be in touch.”

Spinning on his heels, Hooper returned to his vehicle. As he drove away, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Samuels stood on the lawn, trembling slightly. The man held a smartphone in his hand.

Hooper drove a little farther before pulling to the side of the road. He pressed a few buttons on his phone, accessing the listening device he’d planted on Samuels’ bowtie.

He listened to the live feed for a few seconds. But all he heard was dull chatter between Samuels and socialite guests. So, he exited the live feed mode and turned to the recorded content.

“George.” Samuels’ voice, breathless and edgy, drifted out of the phone’s speaker. “Is that you?”

“Barney?” The voice was hard and firm. “What’s wrong?”

Hooper checked the information recorded on his phone. He wasn’t surprised to see the number belonged to George Kaiser, Secretary of Transportation.

“We have a problem,” Samuels replied. “Can we meet?”

“What kind of problem?”

“A Secret Service agent just accosted me at home.” Samuels paused. “He knows what we did.”

My heart raced as I sprinted across the clearing, hot on the kid’s tracks. A steep hill, covered with soft soil, lay before me.

I raced up it, my feet slipping and sliding on loose dirt. The loud hissing noise continued in violent bursts, causing my entire body to cringe over and over again.

Looking over my shoulder, I saw the creature gallop through the gully. It rammed into a patch of dense thicket. Thrashing sounds filled the air as it cut through the dying vegetation.

It burst into the clearing. Its paws slipped on loose dirt and it slid in a half circle, kicking up tons of dirt in the process. I caught a glimpse of its rear.

And of its second head.

Did Simona’s people do this to you?

I squinted. But its teeth gnashed so rapidly, I couldn’t see anything more than a fuzzy blur.

Catching traction, the creature slid to a halt. Then it raced toward me, this time with its second head leading the way.

I sprinted to the top of the hill. The boy was about twenty feet in front of me. Beverly was on his heels and Graham trailed her, moving incredibly fast on his artificial leg. Picking up speed, I followed them over the hill and down the backside.

“Come on,” the kid shouted. “You’ve got to go faster.”

His speed and stamina, especially considering his emaciated appearance, amazed me. Digging deep, I quickened my pace.

Halfway down the hill, Graham lost his balance. He fell, shouting as his right side struck the ground. He tried to get back up, but his momentum was too strong. Abruptly, he began to careen down the hillside.

Hustling forward, I helped Beverly lift Graham to a standing position. His shirt was torn. Bloody scrape marks covered his stomach and right side.

“Over here,” the kid hissed quietly.

I propped Graham up on my shoulder. A wave of exhaustion swept over me. In the last couple of hours, I’d survived a helicopter crash. I’d fought the currents and raced sharks to shore. I’d climbed up boulders, hid from the Polynesian man, and dodged chemtrails. Now, I was being chased across hilly terrain by a two-headed killing machine.

My legs grew weary as I dragged Graham toward a tall rock outcropping. I felt logy, tired. I knew I couldn’t last much longer.

The kid stopped outside a small fissure. Hurriedly, he waved at us. “Pass him here,” he said.

I hauled Graham to the fissure. Multiple hands reached out. They grabbed Graham’s armpits and dragged him into the dark space. The kid hurried after him.

Beverly threw herself at the hole and wriggled through the fissure. As she scrambled into the blackness, the air hissed behind me. Whirling around, I stared at the hillside.

“Cy,” Beverly whispered. “Come on.”

A strong breeze swept over me as I slid into the fissure. A strange oily scent filled the air. The hot temperature warmed a few degrees. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry.

I crawled forward, my hands and knees banging against rock. The fissure widened and grew taller, eventually opening up to a small cave. I crawled into it. Reaching up, I felt the ceiling. It was about four feet off the ground.

The hissing grew louder. Twisting my neck, I noticed a giant shape on the other end of the fissure. An air of electricity surrounded it.

The creature pawed at the fissure. Then it lowered its head to the thin space. Its eyes, bright red, seemed to reach into the depths of my soul.

Swallowing hard, I held perfectly still. A few seconds passed.

Then the buzzing sounded again. It joined with the hissing, creating a discordant noise.

Rock crunched. Dirt and dust shot into the fissure, getting in my eyes and lungs.

My heart skipped a beat.

It’s breaking the rock. It’s coming in here.