Turn or Burn (12 page)

“Perhaps.”

“It is. It really is. You can see why this would upset people. If you were a believer in the afterlife, suddenly you must make a choice that we never had.
Do you want to die?
Or go to—” she raised her fingers in quotes, “‘Heaven?’ And if we choose to live on, would we do so in some kind of created software world, or would we create robot bodies that could be our vessel?
Then
what happens when we grow to such a population that we outgrow earth? Could we transfer everyone, via satellites, to some other planet? You can really get out there with your thoughts.”

It occurred to me that they had spent much of their marriage discussing the Singularity. She was well equipped to discuss the topic at length, and showed much more than a passing interest.

“What if
heaven
was a virtual world that we create?” she continued. “Then it would be true, that you create your own heaven.”

Was this really possible? Well, if I were living two hundred years ago, and someone told me about Skype, I would not have thought it possible. Look at military warfare. Men used to throw stones at each other. Not two hundred years ago, armies used to face each other in lines and fire their guns back and forth. Now, we fly unmanned drones and engage enemies with joysticks thousands of miles away from the battlefield. So, yes: I was a believer.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about who would go after my husband specifically,” Luan said, “and I don’t think he was targeted because of his work with Rachael. I think it was because he was the keynote speaker of the Summit. Because he represents this movement. Anyone involved in these kinds of technologies is breaking down what we grew up believing. There’s a chance that fifty years from now, the only thing certain in life will be taxes. Death might just be a choice…carried out by hitting the delete button.”

A chill ran up my spine.

About ten years ago, after not seeing him for years, I had run into Jason when I went out to run an errand while staying in Benton City at my parent’s farm. I was driving over to the hardware store to grab some zip ties and came around a corner to find two cars had slammed into each other. One was on fire. I ended up dragging Jason out and saving his life. Complete coincidence. But I had been squeezing him dry of favors ever since.

I sat down in the shotgun seat of his little Honda. Jason was a stubby, short fellow. He was one of those people that you could never tell if he was in shape or not. He had a pudgy nose to go with it.

“You know,” he started, “sometimes I wish you’d never pulled me out of that car.”

“Sometimes I wish I’d climbed in there with you. So it goes, ol’ buddy. What you got for me?”

“Detective Jacobs. He’s good at what he does. Solved that raincoat murder last year. That guy with the axe.”

I knew the one and nodded in acknowledgement.

“He’s got a good record. I imagine he will beat you to finding out what’s going on. Why don’t you let him?”

“I serve my own kind of justice. Certainly don’t trust someone else to do it. Besides, I’ve made promises to people.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“So what’d you hear?”

“They obviously know both women were prostitutes. One you killed, the other died of cyanide poisoning. They know that at least two other men are involved, the two who held the security guy’s family hostage. Jacobs is trying to find out more about them. They wore masks but we know they’re white. Didn’t hurt anyone. As far as Jacobs’s next steps, he’s looking deeper into both women’s lives. That’s all I could get for you…except this.”

He reached under his seat and handed me a thick stack of papers. I looked through it. It had names, mug shots, arrest histories, and last-known addresses of everyone associated with the Summit the day before.

“There are 308 people on there,” Jason said. “I don’t know what you expect to do with it—not that I care, as long as my name doesn’t come up. They’d have my job, no doubt about it.”

“Have I ever done you wrong?”

“Other than stealing Debbie Hammond from me?”

“Man, you still haven’t let that go, have you?”

“I never will.”

We said good-bye, and Francesca and I went back downtown and found a coffee shop where we could look through the pages of the arrests. It was going to be a long day. It had been twenty-four hours since Ted was shot, and we hadn’t gotten very far.

We sat at a small bistro table in the semi-crowded shop with cups of single origin, fair trade hipster java steaming in front of us and began thumbing through the pages. Three hundred and eight arrests. Most of them were out or getting out today. How the hell could we sift through this information and get anything useful? I began to read through my half of the stack carefully. I was particularly interested in those with longer rap sheets. Someone in this pile had to know something. Not that they would be willing to share what they knew, but perhaps we could get it out of them. These people were the most vocal against Singularity. They were the ones willing to spend time in jail over their beliefs. Perhaps even willing to kill for their cause.

After a while, I said, “I’m not seeing anything that immediately jumps out at me. How about you?”

“Not yet. Maybe we’ll have to visit every single one of these people. Ask them questions.”

“We don’t have the time. There has to be a pattern.”

“Then let’s find it.”

I nodded. “I’m really backing off the idea that this had something personal to do with Dr. Sebastian. Let’s face it. He wasn’t sleeping with these girls. It has to do with Singularity. Why else would they try to get him during the Summit? It’s too risky—unless they’re making a statement. And Luan is probably right. Sebastian was the target because of what he represented, not because of what he was doing. This is a group motivated to fight Singularity. It has to be.”

“Right. This isn’t two prostitutes and their two pimps getting even for some unpaid debt.”

“Exactly what I’m trying to say. I think we have to assume we are looking for an enemy to Singularity.”

“So, we’ve got an answer right in front of us.”

“Yeah, someone here has to know something.”

“Still,” Francesca said, “it doesn’t explain why Lucy and Erica are involved. What? Did they find God all of a sudden?”

“That or they were paid to do it. What other motivation could there be?”

“I can’t think of any.”

A homeless man pushed his way through the door, and I watched him for a moment. He must have finally collected enough change to get his caffeine fix. The man had a terribly hunched back and brought with him a tremendous stench that floated through the air like fresh cookies from the oven in an opposite world. When he saw me, he began to head my way.

He reached our table and said, “I was told to give this to you.” He handed me a piece of paper.

I took it and he turned to leave. “Hey, wait a minute,” I said.

The man didn’t turn around. I unfolded the piece of paper and read the short note.

“Hey,” I said, louder, unintentionally grabbing everyone’s attention in the coffee shop. The man stopped. I got out of my chair and went up to him. “Who gave you this?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“Just some guy outside. He gave me twenty bucks. I didn’t read it, man.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know.” The homeless man’s breath was quite unpleasant.

Francesca came up next to us. “What’s going on?”

I ignored her and said again, “What did he look like?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Black? White? Red?”

“A white guy. Maybe forty years old.”

“What color shirt?”

“Green, I think. I don’t know, man.”

I looked at Francesca. She was holding the files and ready to go.

“White guy, green shirt. He’s probably watching us. Find him. Head south. Put his face in the dirt.” With that, I calmly exited the coffee shop and stepped onto the sidewalk to take a look around.

People that play these little adolescent games aren’t used to playing them with someone like me. Whoever it was thought they could get some homeless guy to hand me a note, and I’d be so flustered that I wouldn’t think to go after them. Or wouldn’t think it was worth it. More often than not, in this kind of situation, the person responsible thinks they are safe in the background. Sometimes, they even hang around to watch what happens, perhaps to make sure I got the note or just to enjoy the show.

We were up on Fifth Avenue. Almost lunch time and the streets were packed. But I scanned the crowd. In the movies, you always see someone look around and then give up. In real life, you don’t give up until you know they’re gone. You at least put a little extra effort in. It should be common sense, but it isn’t.

In the spirit of breaking laws, I jaywalked and started jogging, guessing a direction. It was almost like being a keeper in a soccer game guarding the goal during a penalty kick. The keeper has to make a guess as to which way the ball is going. Otherwise, his reaction time won’t be fast enough. Sometimes it works. Other times, not so much. Certainly better than doing nothing.

Once I crossed the street, I moved right, still scanning the crowd, looking for a green shirt or anything out of the ordinary. Like any eyes on me. Taking another gamble, I hung a left and went down Spring Street. The hill dipped down to the water and I moved quickly. I was starting to lose hope but I kept going.
This guy is only human
, I kept saying to myself. He didn’t fly away. The person who wrote that note had to be within a few hundred yards.

After a few more minutes, I dialed Francesca, hoping that she had the guy hog-tied on Fourth Avenue. No such luck. Oh well, it was worth a shot.

“What did the note say?” she asked.

“I’ll show it to you. Meet me back at the coffee shop.”

She was there before I was. I handed her the note. She read it out loud. “
Go back home, Harper. The two of you will leave this alone or die. Your friend’s death was an accident. Consider this a peace offering
.”

“Doesn’t sound like Detective Jacobs to me.”

“Uh, no. It sounds to me like we’re on the right track.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

Out of nowhere, a haziness came over me. The world around me began to spin. That all-too familiar feeling. The one I couldn’t run from. I closed my eyes.

“You okay, Harper?”

I shook my head, barely hearing her question.

“Harper?”

I peeled my eyes open after a few more seconds. My vision came back. “Yeah, just…I don’t know. I’m fine.”

Gaining control, I looked around. Out there somewhere, someone was watching us. I could feel it. Behind some corner, someone had their sights on us.

“Let’s head back,” she said, certainly noticing I was off in some way—and oh, how embarrassing that was. I tried to keep the thought from festering.

We walked up the street. After a few steps, I got my balance back. My truck came into view around the next block, parked at an angle on a severe uphill slant.

The second we turned the corner, the truck exploded into flames. A thunderous boom shook the street. I instinctively jumped to my right, covering Francesca and slamming her against the concrete. As we hit the ground, I scrambled to get on top of her, protecting her from any falling debris. “Keep your head down!” I yelled. People everywhere were screaming in terror.

Once the worst was done, I slowly moved off Francesca. My truck was lit up from bumper to bumper; the flames reached twenty feet in the air. The windows were all blown out and the chemical smell of burnt rubber assaulted my sinuses.

I looked back at Francesca and touched her cheek. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for that.”

I stood and helped her up. Then I jogged up the hill towards the truck. Francesca followed me. I looked for anyone that might have been hurt. The windows of a barbershop only twenty feet away had been shattered. The brick walls were black. I walked that way and looked inside. Several people were on the floor. “You guys okay?”

“Yep, everybody’s fine,” a man said as he pushed himself up off the ground.

Sirens began to sound in the distance. People on both ends of the block were staring at the scene. It was almost a miracle that no one had been hurt.

Unless that was by design.

“Jacobs isn’t going to be happy about this,” I said, staring at the truck, watching it burn, feeling the heat. “But I couldn’t care less,” I added.

“That’s exactly how I feel,” Francesca said. “Do we tell him about the note?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “What do you think?”

“Definitely not.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re so full of shit, Harper.”

I was back at the hotel and had just explained to Chaco that we would not be buying a new tractor or grape press until I had a new truck when Jacobs called. After speaking with the cops and helping them fill out their little reports for the second time in two days, Francesca and I had walked back to regroup.

Jacobs screamed at me for a while, proving to have quite the temper. Then he said, “My threat still stands. I find you investigating this case, you will be arrested.”

“Detective Jacobs. Sir. I have no interest in this case. The man I was protecting is still alive. Ted’s death upsets me, but she who pulled that trigger is also cold and stiff. I’m good.”

“That better be the case.”

I hung up the phone and grabbed a shower, and then went down to Francesca’s room one floor below. She’d done the same; her hair was still wet. She wore jeans, no shoes, and a tight white T-shirt. Very, very tight.
Hmm.
Some things you can’t help but notice. She had a way of wearing men’s attire and making it looking utterly feminine.