Despite his normally level head, Rush seemed as distraught as I was. Even when sitting on a folding chair outside the ER, he was nearly taller than me, and it gave him an imposing mien that I couldn't help respecting. "How did they find them?"
"I put a homing beacon in Saga's mobile, and Crystal had hers, but..." I growled, clenching my fists as I remembered Vice's taunt. "I don't know how, but they cracked the frequency."
"I see." He closed his eyes, thoughtful. "This is a serious problem."
What an understatement! "I'm afraid the entire production was an elaborate farce, a device by which to provoke me. There was no evidence I could locate that had any suggestion of involvement with the JAM project, only thinly-veiled attacks against me as though laughing at my being there in the first place, then their – attack on Crystal as a coup de grâce."
Whether he was thinking or quietly steaming, I couldn't quite tell. It tore me apart to have been the inadvertent cause of the mess. If only Saga... No, that wasn't fair. The night out was good for her, all things considered, and it was ultimately Vice at the heart of everything. It wasn't my fault he was such a pompous jerk to take advantage of our weaknesses!
His note kept scratching me under my clothes, but I didn't have any choice except to leave it there for now. Yeah, let me expose myself to my boss by fishing out an inappropriately-placed card in front of him. That would make everything all better.
"If that's all," Rush declared after some time, "you are free to leave. The surgery will take some time, and there's no point in losing sleep waiting around."
"I'm going to lose sleep anyway."
"Then do it in your bed, not here. That's an order."
I hated to just leave after rushing off, but I was running out of options at every turn. I couldn't stay, I couldn't go back and confront Vice, I couldn't go back and—I assumed—wake up the Rockfords to apologise for my abrupt drop-off... I was in check, possibly checkmate, and it made me feel even more helpless than ever.
"Then goodnight, sir."
"Goodnight, Versa."
"Please let me know as soon as she's out of surgery."
"I will."
I turned, gnashing my teeth once again as I strode toward the nearest restroom. Inside, I yanked out the note and crumpled it up in my hand, unleashing my limited ability to strike back upon it. I would have set fire to it if there was any way to do it without disrupting the entire hospital. Instead, I started to tear it into the tiniest pieces I could manage, stopping only when I happened to see the writing:
01212009. ♥Huh? What country code was that? No, there weren't enough digits there for even a local call, especially not if it started with zero. Undistracted by emergencies now, it made my flesh curl just to be touching it. All I had gotten from the whole mess was this note—as though I would seriously call him even if it was a real number! It made me furious to be in this position, failing my job on so many levels. It made me so angry that...
It started to make me wonder. He never did anything—ANYTHING—that didn't further his own agenda somehow, and annoying me somewhat didn't seem worth even that small amount of effort. There was something to the note that wasn't immediately evident at a cursory glance. I stared at the number for a long time but couldn't make sense of it. Maybe NSA could find something with their resources.
"Wait," I said, hurrying back down the corridor to find Rush again. To my surprise, Thrasher was there. Of all— "...I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"
Thrasher looked at me with disdain. He had never quite approved of my working for the government, much less the department. More than likely, he was trying to convince Rush to have me thrown out.
"Versa. I thought I sent you home."
I knew I had to do something about the note, but if Thrasher knew what I was going to tell Rush, he might decide that I was either wasting time and resources or walking into another trap—which I might well be, but why give him any more ammunition to get me removed? "I wanted to know what you wanted me to do about the Riordan follow-up."
Rush grunted. "Worry about it tomorrow."
"Worrying is like counting sheep for me."
"Eh, fine. Contact Rothe and Fender—one of them should be able to brief you on the next course of action."
Thrasher remained silent the whole time, motionless except to glare at me. I nodded in deferral to him all the same, yet I couldn't get past the feeling that I was encroaching on his territory even though we were completely separate divisions. It probably bugged me more that he kept me from Rush than anything else, that there was no justifiable reason I shouldn't have just done what I had returned to do, but I felt far too uncomfortable to pretend the guy wasn't there. "Good night," I said to no one in particular, turning and hurrying back to my bike.
Stupid, I thought. This is so – high school! Just go back in there and show him the note. It was no use. My legs carried me to the chopper, my hands picked up the helmet, my fingers buckled the strap, my backside planted itself on the saddle, and my keys started the ignition. I felt pulled toward the tech building on Taylor, as though compelled to get away from Thrasher. What did it mean? It seemed silly to avoid a possible source of information like this...
No matter. Fender shouldn't have any problems helping me out. I just hoped I wouldn't pay for not telling Rush immediately.
It was a cold evening to drive, and I felt even more ill at ease without my coat. A light rain started to pick up, as if to add insult to injury, but I didn't want to spare the extra time to run home. The security guard gave me a funny look when I walked in and shook myself off, but I just flashed my badge and continued to Fender's office on the seventh floor. She seemed surprised to see me barge in. "Versa! What brings you here at this hour?"
"I came down to see what I should do about the Riordan follow-up—" I glanced around surreptitiously, noting whether anyone was looking in. We shouldn't be visible from the security cams, at least. "—and to ask you about this."
She furrowed her brow when I handed over the note. "What is it?"
"A number, but I can't tell what the significance of it is. Vice gave it to me and seemed to suggest that I should call him, but this can't possibly be a legitimate phone number."
"This is all of it?"
"Yeah..."
"Just a number – and a heart."
I made a face. "Don't get me started."
Fender stared at it for at least as long as I had. "This could literally be anything," she noted, "except—as you already knew—a phone number."
"What possible reason would Vice have for giving me this?"
"Well, I can cross-reference it with all of the known data on JAM, but it will take a bit of time."
"How long?"
"Maybe half an hour. There aren't many actual files on JAM, but there are a few thousand possible ties to check. If you want, I can also scan it for any embedded fibres or invisible inks, but that will take another hour or two."
It wasn't worth risking coming down here again later, if Thrasher was really a mole. "Sure thing. I'll wait."
"Be my guest. You can flop on the couch over there if you like—I'm sure it's been a long day for you."
"You don't know the half of it." I stretched out and gave in to the simple pleasure of relaxing for a moment. I wished it could have lasted longer, but my train of thought kept wandering back to places I didn't want it to go, no matter what I tried. "Tell me about Thrasher."
"Eh?" Fender looked up from her station again. "What about him?"
"I'm – worried about his motives."
"How so?"
"I dunno... I get this feeling like I'm under higher scrutiny around him than with other people, like he has some kind of vendetta against me."
Here, she bit her lip. "I don't think I like the implications of that, but I can see what he's been up to lately. Not that I expect much is likely to turn up—if there's really something malicious going on, he isn't likely to broadcast it."
"Well, even hierarchy would be informative. If I'm stepping on his chances for promotion or something, that would be useful to know."
"Makes sense."
That was enough. Searching for too much in such a short span of time would look suspicious. "Thanks for doing this."
She gave me a nervous laugh. "Hey, it's my job."
Despite my inclination to the contrary, I had to follow Rush's orders and get some rest as my head was starting to feel floaty by this point. My rebellious side was pleased to at least be doing it at the office than in the lumpy bed I hadn't gotten around to replacing, which my infection told me would outlive me by years if I bothered to do it. I'd always felt mildly more comfortable in furniture not designed for sleeping, anyway.
Time passed like clockwork, with nothing to make me lose track of the planet's natural rhythm but Fender's typing and pen-clicking. I found reflecting on the day's events unavoidable, and my brain shut down from being overwhelmed—
"—Versa?"
Fender shook me awake, a concerned look crossing her face as I sat up with a jolt. "Wh–what is it?"
"I, er, you were – making some strange noises just now."
"Was I?" I hadn't slept with anyone who mentioned me doing that before. Did I always do it? "What kind of noises?"
"Like, you were thrashing about a little, as though you were suffocating."
"Was I." Then my nightmares took on a life of their own, after a sense. "I'm sorry about that." That didn't seem to be the answer she was looking for, but I wasn't prepared to give that one.
"Well, er... We found one possible link to the JAM Project containing that number. It's an ID for a blood test sample relating to a study. It's an extremely tenuous link, however—we literally would have never thought to look for it if you hadn't told us the code."
"Who's the subject?"
"Don't have the clearance to say at the moment. Gimme a day or two, and I can get back to you on that."
"Okay. Thanks, and let me know." There was nothing else for me to do here. While I had the respite, it was best if I made amends for last night's rude departure and, hopefully, not destroy any more of the bridges I spent so much time trying to build these days. "Guess I should be heading out—is it already sunrise?"
"About a half-hour ago."
"Mm," I muttered, doing the math. "I should be okay for time."
"You're going out again?" Fender asked. "Weren't you up all of yesterday?"
"I'll be fine, Mum," I joked. "I'll finish my homework and brush my teeth, too."
She rolled her eyes, turning back to her station. "Good luck out there."
I smirked, feeling a little better with someone watching my back. I raced back to my chopper and booked it to the Rockfords' again. Even on a holiday, traffic was heavy, and the sun was starting to beat down on me by the time I approached the house. Mr. Rockford must have heard me coming, as he met me at the front door.
"Good morning, Anna," he greeted, a hint of bags under his eyes. "I have to admit, I'm surprised to see you again so soon."
I bowed in apology. "I have some unfinished business."
"Is this about last night?" He glanced toward the house with a look of concern on his face. "Saga won't tell me anything about what went on and why you weren't with her."
Of course she wouldn't. "It's complicated."
"Did anything – bad happen?"
What could I do? I frowned. "The short of it is Vice and I crossed paths and spoiled the mood."
"Oh."
"It was unavoidable, though! I had to leave as soon as I dropped her off, due to an unfortunate work-related incident."
He seemed completely lost already. "Perhaps you'd better just come in and talk with her, then. I can't get anywhere."
I nodded. "Hopefully she'll understand."
Saga was sitting at the kitchen table alone. I assumed Epic was in his room – still asleep? I didn't know his current sleep patterns. "Hey," I offered.
She wouldn't even look up from her breakfast.
"I'm REALLY sorry about last night, Saga. I know what it meant to you, and I really did give my best shot at keeping it nice—"
"You left without saying goodbye," she pouted, glaring at me.
"I was in a hurry," I confessed. "My boss buzzed me that one of my co-workers was in an accident, and I had to see her."
"So? Co-workers are people you see at work! Why do they preclude me, when the point was spending time with me—YOUR idea?"
She wasn't going to make this easy, was she. "Yes, I admit I was preoccupied the whole time, but you can't tell me your mind was on our 'quality time' either."
"It was! I was just being mindful of the fact we didn't see eye to eye on Vice."
Were you now, I thought. I supposed there really wasn't a 'best' approach to the matter at all. "I was concerned, okay? You'd be, too, if the reason your co-worker was disabled for LIFE was indirectly your fault. I can't exactly say, 'whoops, sorry,' and we go back to being all hunky-dory with everything."
Saga seemed to lighten up a bit at the revelation. "...I'm sorry," she muttered, looking away.
"Yeah. Believe me, I didn't enjoy the ordeal at all. There was absolutely no good way out of it."
"You could have said something then."
"My work's a bit sensitive, you know? I'm never quite sure what I can say that won't come back to haunt me later." I hoped that gave her a little more insight into things, but I could never tell.
Saga was quiet for quite some time. "...how is she, then?"
"Paralysed from the waist down. She's looking at thirty-one more years of it, too."
That just made her quiet again. "...are you in trouble...?"
I shook my head. "Not exactly. I mean... How can I put it. The people who crippled her are bad people, and they aren't looking out for our best interests."
"Are they after you?"
"...kind of."
"So, yes."
Couldn't fault her for seeing through my clumsy attempts to tell her everything by not telling her anything. I sat down at the table, and Mr. Rockford joined us, offering me a plate of toast. "Thank you." I took a piece and started spreading some marmalade on it. "So – did anything happen since I dropped you off?"
Saga glanced at her father, who gave her a stern look. "I called up some of my friends and we hung out after you ditched me, before Pop caught me."
I opened my mouth to lecture her, but it was already evident that they had already been through this dance—on less sleep than I'd had, even. "Ah... I meant anything out of the ordinary, like suspicious people walking past the house."
"No."
"Haven't seen any strange vehicles parked down the road or gotten calls from unfamiliar numbers?"
Saga looked at me funny. "Why?"
"Yes or no?"
"No – why? Is something going on?"
I sighed. "I told you, Vice is NOT a good person..." The look in her eyes was still scathing. "...but I don't know if it's just that he's not a nice person to ME."
"Why you?"
Her silence waiting for me to answer was almost deafening, and Mr. Rockford seemed lost on how to change the subject. "It's kind of... You know how people get crushes on other people? Like how, say, there's a cute guy at work or gorgeous girl at school or whatever?"
"Of course."
"Well, there's some people who aren't quite all there. It's a crush, but it's not love."
"How do you mean...?"
I rubbed my hands nervously, the pains shooting again. Mr. Rockford noticed this and, well-meaning as he must have been, pointed it out. "Do they hurt?"
It felt like too much, too soon, and I withdrew. "Do what hurt?" I hated to throw away his opening like that, but... Would I ever be ready to tell them everything?
Their reactions were unexpected. Mr. Rockford looked disappointed, while Saga looked curious. Neither said anything more, however.
"How about this—it's part of my job to check for suspicious activity. For instance, Vice gave you that camera, but it could have a tracer in it, or some kind of bug. I'd have to check it out."
"Funny you should mention..." She trailed off as though she knew she had to tell me something but wouldn't unless I asked her.
"What? Something wrong with the camera?"
Her expression turned violent. "Glory broke it! She got so jealous of me when I showed it to everyone and smashed it before I could get the pictures off it!"
I couldn't deny that I was secretly pleased, but – a camera was still an expensive device, and it was an irreplaceable souvenir. Besides, recent models were sturdier than that, surely? "Just like that? It doesn't work anymore?"
She grabbed her purse and whipped out the camera, holding it face forward. "Not when the lens is broken!"
"Then the card should still be okay, at least."
"That's what I need, something to read the data. I don't care about the camera as much as that, but we don't have a compatible computer at school, and I don't trust my friends with my stuff anymore."
"I should give you my old laptop. It looks like the same manufacturer, so there shouldn't be a compatibility issue."
Instead of being elated at the prospect, Saga seemed to have mixed feelings. "There's also... There were a few other pictures on the card from before, I found."
That didn't sound good. "I'm sure they weren't anything big—or," I hinted, rolling my eyes suggestively, "maybe they might be something – juicy?"
She wasn't playing that game, instead biting her tongue. That meant there was a lot more to them than would seem and, for what reason, she wasn't letting on. Something so bad that her father couldn't know what they were?
"Well, if you like, I can just get the pictures off the card and send them to you? You know what was on there, so you can trust that I'm sending all of th—"
"That's okay," she insisted, waving her hands. "Just the ones of Vice are fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, don't worry about the others."
I took the camera from her, hesitantly putting it in my coat pocket. Why did I have the feeling I wasn't going to like what I found? Well, might as well see what they were before they set ablaze from the pure evil contained on them...
"So prints are okay? Or, as I said, my laptop's just lying around."
"That's okay, prints are good. I don't know what I'd do with a laptop—besides have Glory break it." She glowered at the last part.
"If you like. I'll give you back the stick after clearing the bad pictures off, then if you ever need duplicates, there are some photo shops that will do them."
"Thanks."
I wasn't sure what else to say, but I hated to just bolt almost as soon as I barged in. "Well, if that's it, I have to get back to work—"
"You aren't on holiday?" Mr. Rockford asked.
I shook my head. "This job I'm on is too important to leave alone. I don't mind pulling overtime—it keeps me busy."
"Well, don't work TOO hard," he warned. "We're almost getting used to seeing you around again."
I grinned, wishing I could afford the luxury. "I'm just glad we got everything straightened out. I'll have the pictures back to you in a jiffy."
Mr. Rockford walked me out, then I jumped on my bike for the millionth time in the last two days, heading to Executive. The booth attendant waved as I shot past, flashing my keycard over the gate sensor to raise the arm. It was delightfully empty today, which meant I got my choice of the garage. As I disembarked, I remembered my wig stuffed aphazardly in the spare helmet and took it out, straightening the fibres before tucking it under my arm. No point in taking it back to the apartment, I guess.
My little office was a haven now, a temporary escape from the drama of Vice and Saga as well as Rush and Thrasher. It had never seemed so inviting before, not when my job was at its most stressful, but – at least for now, no one was bothering me here. I draped the wig over the coatrack, wondering how many heads it would turn if I left it there.
I pulled the camera out of my pocket and turned it over in my hands. It was Saga's now, not – his, I told myself to keep from flinching. The damage seemed limited to the lens and battery casing—something that probably wouldn't take much to repair, but it might also cost less just to replace it, as quickly as technology was improving and making itself obsolete. Sure enough, the stick was intact and extracted easily from the chamber.
I plugged it into the reader in my station, and the autodetect immediately opened the containing file system. There were twenty photos, seven of which were of Vice that I remembered. I started with the most recent ones—sure enough, his smug mug filled my screen. I couldn't advance past them quickly enough.
The first picture following Vice giving Saga a peck on the cheek was... I had a bit of a time discerning what exactly I was seeing. It appeared to be – skin? But whose? If so, I couldn't quite tell if it was from someone alive or a cadaver and, given what I knew of Vice, I had no idea which would be better in this case.
The remaining twelve weren't much better, portraying various – things, for lack of a better word, that may have been harmless but nevertheless conjured disturbing mental images. No wonder Saga didn't know what to tell me. Did it mean maybe she would see what I saw in him, a psychopath instead of a crooner? Perhaps a coroner, I snorted, though that sounded less funny the more I thought about it. It was suddenly colder in the office than I expected, even though I had the air off.
The last image—presumably, it was the first one taken, unless Vice altered the file specs for some reason. When I studied the detail, it appeared to be cloth—specifically, clothing, possibly still being worn. The colour suggested a female, the lace suggested a gothic dress or undergarments. When I enlarged the image enough to view it at 100% detail, I noticed a very small number written on the skin near the hem:
03658163Similar to the note: eight digits incliding leading zero. What did it mean? I skipped through the thirteen images again, searching each for a number. Each save one contained a series of seven digits following a leading zero. It didn't make sense—why eight? Why not seven, if all of them started with zero?
I looked at the image file numbers. The ones of Vice and Saga were numbered ascending sequentially. The others were out of order with no particular rhyme or reason evident. They weren't even a standard size, which meant they weren't necessarily taken with this camera. Did he mean for me to find these?
I buzzed Fender. "Got anything new for me?"
"Hey, Versa, you're still awake? No, nothing new's turned up."
"Well, process these, then—I found some suspicious pictures on a memory stick that was in Vice's possession." I threw her an interoffice link.
"...what ARE these?"
"That's what I'd like to know. I'm not familiar enough with the medical side of things to tell if they are what I think they are."
"Great... I'll be here."
"Thanks."
The waiting bugged me, but I didn't want to go back to Rush about this without a lead. I had to figure out my next course of action alone and get his approval. Sighing, I flipped through the stack of interoffice post on my desk, then I picked at the Riordan files and filled in a few more blanks in the missing fields.
"Hey, Versa—"
Somehow I didn't expect an answer that quickly. "Something wrong?"
"Wow, these numbers you gave me are also IDs for samples from the same study. I may be able to find out more with some time. At a glance, though, I noticed one thing in common between all of them: the age of the subjects were fifty or older."
"Fifty?" The conclusion that jumped out at me was startling. "Could it have something to do with MLCS?"
"—possibly. Wow, if the subjects are all fifty and haven't spotted already..."
"Exactly. I wonder if these people may be part of a vaccination effort?"
"This may explain the seemingly random disappearances, if they're the same people. The thing we don't know about them is if, in fact, they haven't spotted."
"I can't think of any other reason kidnapping older people would be valuable, especially ones who aren't particularly well off."
"The one that's missing a number, that's the only one that doesn't fit. I don't know if that's who corresponds to the number on the note or what's the significance of not having a number. I can't tell without knowing which is the case. In any event, we're going to have a difficult if not impossible time finding out, since there's a strict protocol regarding patient confidentiality. Even the folks running the study may not know who they subjects are."
Well, poop. "What about the file numbering? Any significance to that?"
"It's just the order they were taken, far as I know. The image dimensions all correspond to different camera specifications, though—a few were taken with the default settings for one brand of camera, some with another brand, but the images all ended up on the same stick. I mean, the unnumbered one isn't even a model that's compatible with this stick, so it has to be just a file share."
"He probably bought several cameras with the intent of using them only once," I mused. "Maybe they weren't even taken by the same person."
"Definitely different people—the timestamps are too close together to be only one person taking them all with seven different camera models."
"That's something, at least. What can you tell me about the study these are from?"
"Not a lot. I can give you the clinical trial number, 40-C-N425, and the title, 'MAJ-Related Lymphoma.' Otherwise, all I have is an enrollment table, patient numbers, and the data corresponding to each patient. Similar studies were basically taking blood samples and analysing the contents, but I couldn't tell you for certain that this one uses exactly the same procedures."
"MAJ?"
"Yeah, muscle-atrophied jaundice, I think? I forget all these obscure diseases."
It seemed odd that the JAM Project had the reverse acronym, as though they were seeking to metaphorically reverse MAJ. It wouldn't be that simple, though—why would a group focused on wiping out even a rare disease be so pursued by the government this way?
"Thanks, Fender. I guess it's better than nothing."
"Don't mention it."
"Ha."
"No, really—don't. I was supposed to be doing a build for Rothe instead of doing your homework for you."
I smirked. "Okay, it'll be our secret. Just you, me, and Rush."
"Aww," she whined, "how do you call THAT a secret?"
"Hey, I have a job to do, too. I've gotten nowhere fast with the stakeout last night. I need something to show for it."
"Yeah, yeah. Good luck with that, I mean it."
I ejected the stick and grabbed printouts of the photos, taking a highlighter to the numbers on each. Saga would have to wait until I could get to a proper studio—even feeling as I did, I didn't want to use printer paper for her pictures, and they wouldn't last as long as photo paper, anyway.
As soon as I was heading out the door, I got a buzz from Rush. I couldn't help feeling elated with things turning around as they were, until I heard his voice. "You're awake? Didn't you get my message?"
"Uh." I glanced at my phone—one missed call. "Sorry, I was asleep then."
"I called your apartment, then Margle told me you'd checked in at your office."
"Yeah! I got a possible lead—"
"Versa! Your foster father's in the hospital."
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