Remote (8 page)

Ever.

The first car to pull over was a late-model red Honda.  Nikki evaluated it coolly as she walked over:  close to new, flashy color, clean.  Driver was fastidious, a little vain.  Liked quality but couldn’t afford top-of-the-line.  Music from inside getting louder as the passenger-side window slid down, hip-hop from fifteen years ago.  He’d be in his late-thirties, white, reasonably good shape, probably have a soul patch under his lip, and have a shaved head.

She leaned down, checked out the driver and gave herself a solid B plus on her evaluation.  She’d gotten age, race and weight right.   Head was shaved, but no soul patch, though he did sport a pair of trendy heavy-framed glasses.  He wore a dark suit and a bright red tie. 

“Hey, honey,” she said.  “Looking for a date?”

“I sure am,” he said.  “You okay talking about price?”

She gave him a quote on the respective costs of what she was willing to do, undercutting local prices by ten percent—she knew he’d like that.  He said a half-and-half sounded good to him, and didn’t bother trying to haggle.  She got in the car.

When they pulled away from the curb, a brown Econoline van followed them.

***

Jack: I was wondering something.

Remote: What would you like to know?

Jack: You use technology to monitor and direct your drones.  You haven’t told me how you capture them in the first place.

Remote: Well, timing is crucial, of course.  Much like you, I spend a great deal of time preparing—selecting possible targets, narrowing down the choices, gathering intelligence.  Everything has to be perfect before I proceed.

Jack: And then what?  You use a gun to control your target?  Do you put the harness on yourself, or get them to do it?

Remote: Using a gun is problematic when dealing with high explosives—even when the amount used is miniscule.  I prefer to use chemical means to subjugate my target; it makes the entire process run much smoother. 

Jack: I do much the same.  I prefer a general anesthetic like isoflurane—nonflammable, and easily obtainable as a veterinary supply.

Remote: I tend to favor the intravenous approach—benzodiazepines are also not difficult to obtain, and produce a reliable level of sedation.

Jack: True.  But there’s always the problem of possible drug interactions when you go the injection route.  I uncovered the fact that my current project has an allergy to opiates at the last moment.

Remote: Interesting.  How did you find that out?

Jack: Medical alert bracelet.  He was wearing it when I took him down—fortunately, it didn’t affect the operation.

Remote: I commend you on your thoroughness.

Jack: I don’t like surprises.

***

 “Uh.  Uhhhhhhh.  Where—where am I?”

“Hello, Mr. Parkins.  You’re a prisoner.”

“I—what?  I can’t—who are you?”

“I’m the one who captured you.  You should be more careful about who you pick up, Mr. Parkins.”

“Oh, God.  Look, I wasn’t—I mean, I was just looking for a little release, okay?  I didn’t mean any—any harm.”

“Just a business transaction, huh?  All right.  I can appreciate that.  I’m fairly business-like, myself.”

“So this is a kidnapping?  That’s—that’s fine with me.  My wife, she’ll pay.  You don’t have to worry about her going to the police or anything, she’ll do exactly what I tell her to.”

“She sounds very obedient.  You think she’d be as eager to buy you back if she knew what you were doing when we caught you?”

“You—you don’t have to tell her that, do you?”

“I’m a big believer in honesty, Mr. Parkins.  But I’ll grant you that sometimes a little deception is called for, in certain situations.  Tell you what—you co-operate with me, I’ll co-operate with you.  All right?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, absolutely.”

“Okay.  Now here’s the part you’re not going to like very much . . .”

***

Jack: I’m ready to make the trade.

Remote: It’s been a while since you were in touch, Closer.  I was beginning to worry you might have had second thoughts.

Jack: What I do takes time.  It’s not so much the actual work as the preparation; every target means learning new patterns, new neighborhoods.

Remote: Of course—it’s much the same with me.  I take it you were successful in your latest quest?

Jack: Yes.

Remote: Outstanding.  Might I ask who it is you’re giving me?

Jack: His name is Dennison Parkins.  Organized killer, targets red-headed prostitutes. Murdered seven women through strangulation with a wire coat-hanger, dumped the bodies in a local river--I caught him in Sacramento and I’m still in the vicinity. 

Remote: I see.  Mr. Mason—despite his considerable size—is currently unconscious after an extended period of sleep deprivation.  He should give you no problems, though his mental state may be somewhat fractured when he wakes up.

Jack: Sleep deprivation?  What was the point of that?

Remote: An experiment.  I’m always trying to improve my methods, and the idea of actual mind control as opposed to external manipulation is one I’m very interested in.

Jack: I can’t say I’m surprised.  Are you aware of what Jeffrey Dahmer did to some of his victims?

Remote: He performed impromptu lobotomies on them with a power drill, in an attempt to destroy their will so they would obey him without question.  My approach doesn’t rely on amateur surgery—though so far it’s yielded limited results.

Jack: Goliath not responding well to taking orders?

Remote: In his case I wasn’t trying to create a robot.  As every military organization knows, before you can train someone to act as efficiently as a machine you must first destroy the programming that’s already there.  I thought I should achieve that before attempting something more sophisticated.

Jack: And have you?

Remote: Sadly, no.  He stubbornly retains a sense of identity, though his capacity for rational thought is diminished.

Jack: That’s often the case.  Breaking someone isn’t about smashing through defenses; it’s about finding points of weakness. 

Remote: Very true.  I hope you find him an intriguing subject. 

Jack: Let’s talk about specifics.

Remote: All right.  You’re currently in Sacramento.  Do you have a preference as to the location of our exchange?

Jack: I was thinking somewhere in California but a little less populated.

Remote: Let me consult a map. . .  there are several small towns along the I-5.  How about Mount Shasta City, or maybe Dunsmuir?

Jack: Mount Shasta is fine by me. 

***

Mount Shasta City was barely more than a large town, with a population of around three and a half thousand.  It sat at the base of Mount Shasta itself, born as a way station on the gold rush route called the Siskiyou Trail.  These days the trail was known as Interstate Number Five, the prospectors replaced by ski bums and spiritual tourists; the fourteen thousand foot height of the mountain attracted those who wanted to go down it really fast and those who thought it could lift them nearer to Heaven.  New Age cults, Buddhist retreats and churches of varying denominations all clustered there; Native American lore held that the mountain contained the essence of a sky chief named Skell, while others claimed it was home to an ancient race of Lemurians who lived in a system of tunnels deep inside. 

Malcolm Tanner didn’t much care if gray-skinned aliens landed on top of it every Saturday night and butt-probed all the locals for fun.  He was here on more serious business.

He drove carefully.  Thick, heavy snow blanketed the shoulder, weighed down the branches on the pine trees lining the road.  His SUV had more than enough power or traction to handle most situations, but he wasn’t used to towing a trailer; he glanced at his rear-view mirror every few seconds, worried it would drift out of control.  He didn’t want the contents damaged before delivery--not that he cared personally, but it would make him look incompetent.   He couldn’t allow that.

The instructions for the transfer had been extremely detailed.  Tanner understood the danger; transport was always the most dangerous part of the job.  Too many variables, too much risk that the cargo would try to make a break for it or try to alert someone.

Not that there was much chance of that now.  Goliath Mason had been in a sleep so deep it was almost a coma for the last six hours, and Tanner didn’t think he’d come out of it any time soon.  Even if he did, he was securely shackled and attached to several monitoring devices; Tanner would know he was awake before Mason did. 

He stopped at a small mom-and-pop motel, paying for a room in cash, then backed in to his parking spot so the trailer was close to his door.   He checked on the sleeping giant and verified that he was still out.

Then he went for a little hike.

The transfer point was in the middle of town, in a parking lot next to a supermarket.  It had been easy to find using Google Earth, and it was just as easy on foot.  Tanner took his time, playing tourist, circling the area, wandering in and out of shops, buying a paper cup of coffee and a local newspaper.  He saw two monks in bright orange robes, some obviously stoned snowboarders, a group of excited Japanese tourists in expensive ski-wear, and any number of ordinary-looking people that might be local or just visiting.

He didn’t see any cops, or anybody that set off his law enforcement radar.  If they were here, they were invisible. 

Finally, he approached the supermarket itself.

He could see a van parked in one corner, an old brown Econoline with its nose toward the street.  He scanned it while walking toward the supermarket’s entrance, trying to make it seem no more than a passing glance.  Were those out-of-state plates?

He went into the market, got a basket, grabbed a bag of pretzels and some diet soda.  He deliberately picked the slowest line, and studied the van through the large front windows of the store as he waited.

Not much snow on the roof—it hadn’t been parked there long.  California plates.  No ski rack, no bumper stickers with New Age slogans—not on the back, anyway.  No chrome Jesus fish, not that he could see.  Rear window was blocked by green plaid curtains.   

There were other cars in the lot, but nothing that looked like it was being used for surveillance.  Buildings with line-of-sight included a one-level storefront, a two-story made of brick with no facing windows, and a service station.  No obvious places for someone to sit and watch.

He returned to the motel and got the SUV, then drove back through town the way he’d came.  He’d scoped out a prime location for the drop-off on the drive up, the entrance to a National Parks campground that was closed for the season.  There was a pull-through for campers right in front of the gate, and tucking the U-haul in there made it almost invisible from the road.  He unhooked the trailer and drove back to the motel.

Once in his room, he shucked off his coat, propped himself up on the bed with a few pillows and opened the bag of pretzels.  He didn’t know for sure that the van was the vehicle he was looking for, only that it was parked in the right spot.  The Closer didn’t know what sort of car Tanner was driving either, only that he’d need a trailer hitch on his own.

He ate a few pretzels, then grabbed his laptop from the bedside table and logged on to the motel’s wireless network.  As he’d expected, there was a message waiting for him: the van was indeed what he was looking for, and the keys to it were in a magnetic case above the right front wheel well.

He sent a message of his own, relaying the location of the trailer.  The Closer could come and get Goliath whenever he was ready. 

Then it was time to pick up his own delivery.

***

Tanner approached the van as casually as he could.  The keys were exactly where they were supposed to be.  He went around to the back of the vehicle and got a thrill just sliding the key into the door lock—what if the whole thing went up in a ball of flame when he turned his wrist?