Origin - Season One (8 page)

The bank to his right receded as Gerald ran until it was only about four feet high. He stopped and began to climb. As he reached the top and pulled himself over, a hand grabbed his foot and started to pull him back down. Gerald kicked out with his free foot, connecting with something soft that gave way under his heel. The man cursed and let go. Gerald stood up and ran toward the house. When he was halfway across the yard, he saw two men come running out of the patio doors.

Gerald dodged to his right, but his foot slipped on the wet grass and he hit the ground. His shoulder joint dislodged with a muffled wet pop and a white-hot bolt of pain ran from his neck to his elbow. He got to his knees and reached across to his right pocket with his left hand, nudging the pistol out with his thumb. Then he picked it up, pulled back the hammer and put the barrel into his mouth.

They saw him and stopped. Gerald heard the man from the beach shout something to them. His voice had a nasal quality that made him sound like he had a bad cold. They stood back, unsure what to do. One of the men who had been waiting in the house took a step forward. Gerald fixed his terrified eyes on him and shook his head.

“Hey, that’s a really bad idea,” the man said. “We don’t want to hurt you, buddy. We just need to ask you a few questions.”

He sounded perfectly reasonable, almost casual.

“What do you say, pal? You put the gun down and we’ll just talk. You can keep it in your hand if you don’t trust us.”

If he hadn’t been almost paralyzed with fear and in such severe pain, Gerald might have laughed. Instead, he closed his eyes and pictured Cynthia standing on the porch of their first home with their baby son in her arms and smiling at him. It was the way he wanted to remember her. Forgive me, he thought, and pulled the trigger.

Skyline Defense

New York, New York
Monday 17 July 2006

2100 EDT

“Gerald Ross is dead,” Rollins said.

Jack walked to the door and locked his office. “What?”

“He’d been warned someone was looking for him.”

“How do you know?”

“We caught him trying to sneak ashore at the back of the house. Rowed up in a little rubber boat. He knew about the break-in. Says he was paid to help a man named Walter Scott get into the Fed. He made a run for it and shot himself in his own backyard before we could stop him.”

“And the drive?”

“He said he didn’t know where it was, but I’m pretty sure he was lying. We searched the house and found the safe open in his office. One of the neighbors saw his wife leave before we arrived. I’m betting she’s taken it with her. Why else would he have shot himself, if not to protect her?”

“Have you got a plate?”

“Massachusetts 1 3 X P 2 7. It’s a black Audi A4 convertible.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” Jack said. “I’ll call you back.”

Jack left the office and walked to the lobby. When the elevator door was closed, he pressed not one button, but six in quick succession. There was a brief pause, then the elevator rose for a moment and the doors opened again.

He stepped out into a room that occupied the entire seventy-ninth floor. The four massive steel girders that supported the building stood exposed at the edges, and the floor-to-ceiling windows were all heavily tinted, giving it the look of an enormous and sparsely furnished studio apartment. The building’s elevator shaft ran through the middle of the room. At one end, several wide office desks had been pushed together to form a long counter against the windows overlooking Central Park. It was littered from end to end with a haphazard collection of computers, screens and cables.

“Marius, I need you to find someone for me,” Jack said.

Marius Botha was a white South African in his mid-thirties. His face was deeply tanned and covered with freckles. He wore a thick pair of black framed glasses, the type issued by the army and commonly referred to as
Rape Prevention Devices
for their distinguishing lack of style. His deep Afrikaans accent often made it difficult to understand a word he was saying.

Jack handed Marius a sheet of paper. “Black A4 convertible. Left Rockport Massachusetts about an hour and a half ago.”

Marius took the sheet and Jack watched as he began to do what he did best.

“What’s going on?” Marius asked finally.

“I’ll tell you later.”

It took him just over five minutes to find Cynthia’s car.

“This was captured an hour ago on the Blue Star Memorial Highway,” Marius said, pointing at a grainy image on one of the monitors.

“Bring it up on a map,” Jack said.

Marius opened a window on another screen and brought up a map of Massachusetts. He zoomed in and pointed at Interstate 495 just below the town of Lowell. Something flashed up on a third screen and Marius turned to it. “That’s it. Northbound on Interstate 91.”

Jack took out his phone and called Rollins back. “She’s making a run for the border up I-91. Call me as soon as you find her.”

Morisson, Vermont

Monday 17 July 2006

2100 EDT

Amanda was in the driveway, leaning on the hood of her father’s prized ‘68 Chevy Impala when Jesse arrived.

“I’ve missed you,” she said as soon as he got out.

“I’ve missed you too, Mandy.”

She pointed at the Volvo and raised her eyebrows. “Your mom’s station wagon? Classy!”

When they reached the interstate, Jesse said, “So, you gonna tell me what brings you back to the Big M in the middle of the semester?”

“I will. But not until I’ve had a drink.”

“You drink now?”

“Are you kidding? It’s practically illegal not to in college.”

The parking lot at Fryer’s was almost empty. They walked through a pair of western-style saloon doors into a large room dotted with round wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Half a dozen people were sitting at the bar, most sipping bottles of beer and watching the game on TV. To the left of the door, an old jukebox was playing “Dixieland Delight” by Alabama.

They took a table at the back of the room. Amanda went straight to the bar and returned with two glasses and a pitcher of Coors Light.

“Bottoms up,” she said and poured each of them a glass.

Jesse took a sip and grimaced.

“It gets easier,” she laughed and took a long drink from her own glass.

“Wow! You’re an alcoholic,” he said.

The conversation began naturally enough. Reminiscences about life in what they had always called the “Big M”. Jesse told her about his job at the Herald and his decision to become a journalist, and the flamboyant Mrs. Abernathy. Amanda described her life at Penn State with increasing contempt.

Her advice about drinking turned out to be accurate. After the first glass, Jesse found the acrid, metallic taste of the beer developing an odd appeal. He also discovered it worked wonders on the tongue. By the end of his second glass, the room had taken on a euphoric clarity in which every detail seemed to spring out at him. He felt as if the world around him had been coated in a thick layer of pure optimism. Amanda found the situation amusing; she kept looking at him with a knowing grin.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” she said as she poured him a third glass.

“So tell me,” he said, picking up the glass and downing half of it in a single gulp. “Why did you come back? I’d like to think you just missed me, but I doubt that’s the whole story.”

Amanda’s face turned serious for a moment as she considered the question. “I guess you could say I fell in with the wrong crowd. I know that sounds kind of lame, but you have to be there to see how things really are. There are people with money and people without, and all the progressive politics in the world won’t change that. Behind the scenes, the class structure is as medieval as it’s always been. I can’t say nobody warned me, I just refused to believe it. I guess I’d just seen one too many bullshit movies.”

“So what happened?”

“I started dating a guy. Real charmer. He played varsity football and drove a BMW. Enough to make you puke, right? Anyway, his dad was a state senator. He took me to Aspen for the weekend and bought me a Rolex. Can you believe that? A fucking Rolex. His dad came up to see him and we went out for lunch. I’d like to say the bastard at least made an effort, but he turned out to be the most obnoxious prick I’ve ever met.”

When she didn’t go on, he leaned forward and said, “What did you do?”

“Suffered through it. When we left, I actually started crying in the car. I thought he would take my side, but the spineless shit bag actually started making excuses for him. So I told him his dad was an asshole and he –”

She stopped and looked down at the table.

“He hit you,” Jesse said. It wasn’t a question. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid.

She reached over and put a hand over his. “It wasn’t that bad. More of a slap, really. He was a bit of a pussy. I’m not making excuses out of guilt or anything. It stung a little, that’s all.”

“What did you do?” Jesse asked. He felt like picking up the nearest chair and throwing it across the room. The fact that he was a little drunk made the idea seem perfectly reasonable, if not compulsory.

“I got out and walked away. He followed me for a while trying to apologize. When I told him I’d be reporting him to the Dean if he didn’t leave me alone, he took the hint and left.”

“Where did you go?”

“Back to my room. I packed my bags and took off. My dad paid for the ticket and here I am.”

“You should have called me,” Jesse said.

She pulled her hand back. “I should have done a lot of things. Starting with minding my own damn business.”

“Christ, Mandy. It’s hardly your fault.”

“I know. But like I said, I had fair warning. I even lost my only real friend when she tried to tell me what I was getting myself into.”

Jesse reached over and took her hand again. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “But you’d seen all those movies!”

For a moment she only looked at him, then they both started laughing.

“You’re right, Jesse,” she said, “I should have called you.”

Amanda offered to get another pitcher and Jesse almost agreed when he remembered he still had to drive back.

“I’ve got to get the car home,” he said. “I don’t think getting pulled over and hit with a DUI is such a hot idea, do you?”

“No, probably not,” Amanda said. “Should we go?”

“Want to head down to Lake Morey?” Jesse asked.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all week.”

They pulled back onto the interstate and headed south. Mandy appeared unaffected by the four glasses of beer she’d had. Jesse, who’d only had three, looked almost stoned.

“You gonna be okay?” Amanda said.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You going back?” he asked after a moment.

She looked out the window, her eyes distant, as if the question hadn’t really occurred to her until now.

“My dad would kill me if I didn’t,” she said at last.

Jesse was about to ask her what
she
wanted when he saw the car. It had pulled off the southbound interstate, moved across the central divide and stopped only a few feet from the road. Someone was standing at the back looking into the trunk. Jesse pulled over onto the side of the road and stopped.

“That was a woman, right?” Amanda said.

“Yeah, it was. Stay here, I’ll go see if she’s okay.”

He got out and crossed the road. The woman saw him and moved to the side of the car.

“Ma’am. Are you all right?” Jesse asked.

“What do you want?”

“My name is Jesse Corbin, ma’am. I live just down the road. Do you need a hand changing that tire?”

The woman took a step toward him. She had a tire iron clenched in one fist. In the dim glow of the car’s interior he could only see her face. She looked haggard, exhausted. Mascara had run from her eyes in two black lines that made her look a bit like a sad clown. There was something mad in those eyes. The look of someone whose gears have started to slip.

“You should leave,” Cynthia Ross said.

“You sure you don’t want me to give you a hand with that?” Jesse asked, pointing at the tire.

“You should leave,” she said again, her voice taking on an edge of hysteria.

“Would you like me to call someone?”

“No, don’t call anyone!”

“Okay,” Jesse said holding up his hands, “I’ll go.”

He decided they would call the police as soon as he got back to the car. The woman was clearly
on
something and he didn’t think pleading with her would do any good.

“Wait!” Cynthia said.

She opened the back door of the car and leaned inside. When she stood back up she was holding a small black bag. Jesse saw she was limping slightly.

“Ma’am, are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?” he said.

She ignored the question and held out the bag. “Take this.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, just take it. Please.”

Jesse did and saw she had started crying again. If there had been any doubt in his mind that the woman was nuts, that dispelled it.

“Go!” Cynthia said. “You need to get out of here.”

Jesse left. When he got back to the car, Amanda was standing by the side of the road. “Is she okay?”

“She’s crazier than a shithouse rat.”

“What’s that?” Amanda pointed to the bag.

“No idea.”

“Shouldn’t we help her?”

“You can try. But I think we would be better off calling the cops. I don’t have a cell; do you?”

Amanda took her phone from her pocket. “No signal.”

“Come on,” Jesse said, “there’s a phone outside Seven-Eleven.”

When they were back on the road Amanda turned to look at the bag in the backseat. “What the hell
is
that?”

“No idea,” Jesse said. “But I plan on handing to the Sheriff as soon as I see him. She seemed to think it was dangerous.”

“I think we should take a look first,” Amanda said.

She reached back and prodded it with her finger, then picked it up and pulled back the zipper before Jesse could protest. “Oh my god!”