Rapture

Chapter Forty-eight

Several blocks over from the Marriott, in the CCJ newsroom, Mels sat in her musical chair, rocking back and forth to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.” Her e-mail account was up on her computer monitor, and periodically the auto send/receive coughed another couple of entries into her in-box. The screensaver came on at regular intervals, too, and each time the rainbow-colored bubbles appeared, she’d reach out, fuss the mouse, and keep things alive.

The only call she’d made since she’d come in had been to Tony’s contact down in the CSI lab. She’d told him that she’d called Detective de la Cruz and made a statement about everything.

She’d been hoping the phone would ring at any minute with an update on the situation, but de la Cruz and his team were no doubt busy down at the hotel, searching an empty room.

Matthias was long gone—

“Psst.”

Shaking herself, she glanced across the aisle. Tony was leaning forward in his seat with a Ding Dong in his palm, offering the little wheel of chemical, chocolaty glory like it was a diamond. “You look like you could use this.”

“Thanks.” She forced a smile—and thought, What the hell. Maybe a load of sugar and preservatives would wake her up out of this stupor. “Not myself today.”

“I can tell. You’ve been sitting there staring at that screen for the last hour.”

“Lot of e-mail to read.”

“Then why haven’t you been reading it?”

Popping the seal on the Hostess bomb and biting into the thing, the outer shell flaked and sent bits and pieces into her lap. Before they melted and fused at the molecular level with the fabric of her slacks, she picked them off and flicked them into the wastepaper basket.

Man, Ding Dongs tasted delicious.

Better munching through chemistry.

“Hey, listen, Tony…I know we’ve never really talked career stuff, but do you have an endgame with this paper? I mean, is this the place where you see yourself staying for the rest of your working life?”

Her buddy shrugged. “I don’t think a lot about that shit. I just work on my articles, do my digging—I’m chill with the future. If this is all I have? I’m good.” He grabbed a Ho Ho for himself and stripped off its wrapper. “But I’ve been waiting for you to pull out.”

“From Caldwell? Really?”

“Yup.” He took a bite. “You’ve never settled in. Made the contacts. Kept them going.”

He was right, of course. And maybe that was why she hadn’t really accomplished as much as she’d wanted to in the last couple of years. Yes, Dick was a prick and a confirmed member of the old boy club, but it was possible she’d been hiding behind that as an excuse for phoning things in.

“I think I want to go back to New York City.” Actually, take out the “think,” she realized with a jolt. “It’s time.”

Her mother was okay; Mels was the one who needed direction. And she had a feeling that would be “south.”

“You’re a damn good reporter.” Tony took another bite. “And you’re under-utilized here—I think Dick knows it.”

“He and I have never gotten along.”

“That’s true of him and women, generally.” Tony crushed the wrapper and tossed it. “So, what are you going to do? You got any in’s down in Manhattan?”

Opening up her drawer, she took out a card she’d stuffed in there the day she’d moved to the desk. It read, PETER W. NEWCASTLE, FEATURES EDITOR—and had the iconic New York Times masthead right under his title.

Back in the day, she’d met Peter in and around Manhattan, and he was still at the Times. She’d seen his name just last Sunday.

“Yeah, I think I do,” she murmured. “Hey, speaking of leaving, I have something I’d like to give you.”

“Lunch, I hope?”

She laughed a little. “Tragically, no.”

Kicking herself out of neutral, she opened up her e-file on all the research she’d done on those missing person cases. Staring at the words she’d typed, the tables she’d made, the references she’d listed, she couldn’t help thinking that all this was what she’d been doing before the storm had rolled through her life.

Memories of Matthias rose like spikes breaking through skin, the pain making her short of breath.

Closing her eyes briefly, she told herself to get a grip.

“It’s coming over e-mail,” she said gruffly.

Tony snagged a Twinkie and swiveled in the direction of his computer screen.

A moment later, she heard him mutter under his breath and then he turned back around to her. “This is…incredible. Absolutely incredible—I’ve never seen…How long have you been gathering all this? And what’s your angle? Who are your—wait, you aren’t turning this over to me exclusively, are you?”

Mels smiled sadly and nodded. “Think of it as my going away present. You’ve been so generous with me ever since I started. And maybe you can get further with it than I could.” She glanced at his screen, seeing all of the work she’d done. “I’ve been stalled out, but I have a feeling that it’s going to be in good hands with you. If anyone can crack the truth behind those disappearances, it’s you.”

As Tony’s eyes went even wider, she knew she’d done the right thing—for herself, for him…and most important, for all those missing boys out there, those souls that had somehow, inexplicably, disappeared into the Caldwell night.

Tony was going to find the answer. Somehow.

As Matthias strode down a carpeted hallway in the ground floor, employees-only part of the hotel, he walked with his head up and his arms swinging casually at his sides. Passing by open doors, he read the little plaques next to each one, and checked out various administrative, human resources, and accounting personnel, all of whom were working hard, talking on their phones, typing on their computers.

Busy, busy. Which was perfect if you were looking to infiltrate somewhere where you didn’t belong. The key was walking with purpose, like an appointment was waiting for you, and making eye contact in a casual, bored manner. That combination, even more than a suit and tie, was critical: You didn’t want to give any of the worker bees an excuse or opportunity to get off their asses and get in the way.

Thank God Adrian had agreed to hang in the lobby. Someone like him, with those piercings, was a billboard for Duck Out of Water in this situation.

As Matthias went along, he knew that sooner or later he was going to find what he was looking for: a vacant computer that was networked into the Marriott’s big database. And what do you know, bingo presented itself three doors down in the form of an empty office with a full desk setup: The little plaque detailing who belonged in there had been slid out of its holder, and there were no personal effects on the desk, no coat hanging in the corner—no window, either. Better solution than he’d expected.

Slipping inside and closing the door, he thought it would have helped if he’d had access to the resources of XOps—nothing like a badge with your picture and an IT title on it to smooth over any inquiries. As it was, all he had was a loaded gun with a silencer.

Sitting in the cushiony leather office chair, part of him was very clear that everyone was expendable, that if anybody walked in while he was working, he was going to shoot them and drag the body under the desk.

But God, he prayed it didn’t come to that for more reasons than one.

Bending down, he hit the switch on the CPU and cut the boot-up off before the inevitable password-protected sign-in screen flashed. Going in under the operating system’s radar, he took control, scrambled the IP address, and jumped onto the World Wide Web.

The XOps computer system was a monolith set up by the best experts he’d been able to recruit, whether they’d been MIT graduates, fifteen-year-old arrogant little shits, or multinational hackers—and each and every one of those big brains had been silenced by means of leverage…or the cold embrace of the earth.

After all, the builders of your castle knew your secret escapes—and he’d especially not wanted anyone in the organization to be aware of the hidden path he now took into the network.

Eventually, someone would probably discover he’d snuck in and out using a ghost admin account, but it would be weeks, months—maybe not ever—

He was in.

A quick check of the clock in the corner of the screen told him he had no more than sixty seconds before he ran the risk of being identified as a concurrent user.

He needed less than thirty.

Putting his hand in his pocket, he took out the SanDisk he’d bought on the way here from the gift shop. Punching the thing into the USB port in the front of the machine, he initiated a data download that was nuclear in its scope, but relatively self-contained in terms of bytes.

Not a lot of operatives, after all, and their missions were short and to the point.

And talk about intel—the files were the lynchpin of his self-protective exit strategy: he’d set up this comprehensive information cache, along with its auto-updating function, the moment the XOps computer systems had been put into service. It was just as important as the weapons and the cash he’d hidden in New York. And London. And Tangier. And Dubai. And Melbourne.

In his business, the emperor stayed on the throne only as long as he could hold on to his power—and you could never be sure when your base was going to erode.

In fact, the return of his memory told him all about how he’d guarded his influence, hoarded it, nurtured it, kept himself alive and in control…until he’d begun to stink from the filth of his deeds; until his soul—or what little of a one he’d had—had withered and died; until he’d become so emotionless he was practically an inanimate object; until he’d realized that death was the only way out, and better that he choose the time and the place.

Like in a desert, in front of a witness…with a bomb that he’d rigged to do the job.

Guess he hadn’t been in control of everything, though, because Jim Heron hadn’t left him where he’d lain and so he hadn’t died according to schedule.

Without Heron’s interference, though, he wouldn’t have eventually met Mels.

And he wouldn’t be using this information in the way he was going to.

This felt like the better outcome.

Except for the losing Mels part, that was.

Just before he signed out, an abiding curiosity got to him. With a quick shift, he pulled out of his shadow account and his little secret locker of information—and signed in for real, using an account he had set up for one of his administrators about six months ago.

It was still active. And the password hadn’t been changed—which was stupid.

Going into the personnel database, he typed in a name and hit return.

In the center of the gray screen, a tiny hourglass spun slowly, and seemed to do that weightless rotation forever. In reality, it was probably less than a second or two. The data that flashed next was Jim Heron’s profile, and Matthias quickly scanned the orderly notations.

He wasn’t worried about this activity getting traced—and it would. Operatives were going to show up at this particular computer ASAP.

Naturally, they would know it was him, and they wouldn’t be surprised.

The next profile he reviewed was his own, and he went back to Heron’s again before he signed off. He wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong, but something stuck with him, something that just wasn’t right. No time to figure it out, however—at least not in this office.

Matthias jacked out and crushed the flashdrive in his fist. After shutting down the comp, he popped open the door, looked to the left and the right, and stepped into the hall. Walking off, he—

“Can I help you?” a female voice demanded.

He paused and turned around. “I’m looking for Human Resources? Am I in the right place?”

The woman was short and stocky, built on the lines of a dishwasher or maybe a file cabinet. She was dressed in a steel gray suit, too, and her hair was cut right at the jawline, like she felt as though she had to prove that she was all business, all the time.

“I’m the head of HR.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who exactly are you here to see?”

“I’m applying for a waiter position in the restaurant? The front desk sent me here?”

“Oh for godsake.” Ms. VP looked like she was going to boil over on the spot. “Again? I’ve told them not to refer you guys here.”

“Yeah, I know—shouldn’t I be meeting with the hospitality manager or something—”

“Take this hall here out to the lobby. Go past the restaurant—until you’re almost at the fire exit. There’s a door marked ‘Office’—you’re looking for Bobby.”

Matthias smiled. “Thanks.”

She wheeled away and started marching in the opposite direction, the muttering suggesting she was already on the phone with whoever she was about to bitch-dial.

Have fun with that, he thought as he strode out.