Stones (Data) (49 page)

“I’ll be gone to the shrine for a few minutes. Wait until I come back. Then we will talk.” Naganuma disappears behind the motorcycle down a dark hallway Matt had not noticed until now.

His eyes fall down to the gray box on the table.

T
he ultra low-frequency alarm pierces the darkness and pours over Kent’s consciousness like a slow-motion mudslide, first touching the skin of his toes and fingers with its vibrations, and then consuming his body in a crescendo of intensity.

He bolts upright, jumping almost to his feet. Motion sensors in the room pick up his sudden movement and kill the alarm. With eyes still closed, he gropes his way on all fours through the darkness to the Turing Box under the window. In his wake, storage boxes, metal tubes, tripods and food containers lie scattered across the floor. It occurs to him that it might make sense to clear a path to the window the next time he sets the alarm before going to sleep.

Earlier in the day, he shot multiple threads of Spysyn across the void between him and the 175th floor of MX Global. Now the invisible threads hang taut across the chasm like the anchor lines of a great spider web. The most careful attention went into the two stereo lines bonded to the outside window of Ryzaard’s office, or at least the one he thinks belongs to Ryzaard. Before retiring to bed, he rigged the two lines to sound sensors on the TurBo and set it up to trigger the alarm if there were any movements inside the office. Someone must have just entered and set off the alarm. He hopes it is more than just the night cleaners.

The screen of the TurBo lights up at his finger’s touch, and he adjusts the volume controls before pressing earplugs into both ears. Voices come through, distinct and clear.

“It’s good to finally be back,” says a male voice, possibly that of Ryzaard. “Feels like we have been gone for a week.”

“Just under fourteen hours.” It’s a female voice, much younger.

Kent reaches to his right and nudges the slate on the table, waking it up. Its screen fills with blue-green light, throwing an eerie glow on his face in the darkness. He brushes the screen with a finger and engages the voice assay protocol. A rolling sound wave anigraph emerges onscreen, and the protocol begins to compare the male voice to a sample of Ryzaard’s words pulled from a recent Mesh-cast, the one that caught Kent’s attention with the announcement about the creation of MX SciFin.

Is it really Ryzaard talking? Kent will have the answer shortly.

Kent stands up, stretches his arms to the ceiling, brings his palms together, lets his head relax backwards and arches his spine. Breathing in deeply, he fills his lungs with air. After standing in that position for thirty seconds, he rights himself and sinks into the camp chair next to the window, looking out across the night to an imaginary space where unseen voices in an unseen room converse. With the stereo lines attached to the target’s window, he can hear every sound with spatial clarity as if he is standing in the center of the same room. It gives him a sense of intimacy that has an uncomfortable, awkward edge to it. But he soon relaxes, closes his eyes and puts himself firmly into the room, hovering between the man and the woman, a ghost in their midst.

The man lets out a sigh and walks to the right, slumping down into a chair that must be made of wood because it creaks with his weight. The woman moves to the left and reclines on what sounds like a leather sofa. Silence floats between them.

Kent turns up the volume and can hear them breathing.

The woman’s voice breaks in. “What should I do with the girl? She’s still heavily sedated.”

“Can you wake her in the morning?”

“No problem. She won’t even remember getting on the transport.”

“Put her to work in Van Pelt’s department,” the man says. “Give her interesting projects, something to keep her busy and happy and as far away from us as possible. But do not let anything take her away from the City. If and when we find the boy, we will need immediate access to her.”

“I’ll put her with another group of summer interns.” The woman yawns as she speaks. “They’re working on public relations for our charitable work in Africa.”

“Good idea. Give her a generous salary. And have her stay in one of the corporation’s luxury condos down on 42nd Street. Kick anyone out you need to. I don’t care if it’s Van Pelt himself.” The man chuckles.

“Understood. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

“Remember, under no circumstances is she to leave the City. I will let you know when I need her. It should only be a few days.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing. A small favor.”

“Yes?” The woman pauses, and Kent senses the anticipation in her voice. “What would you like me to do?”

“I’m in need of a soundproof, bulletproof room in the empty space next door.” The man stands and begins to walk.

Kent hears him coming closer to the spot in the room where his listening is centered. As the man seems to brush past, Kent feels the hair on his spine rise, and he nearly falls out of his chair.

The man moves by and stops a meter away. “I want only one entrance to this new room, from my office. No other doors. Have the entire room reinforced with high-impact armor from the R&D department, the best they have. It needs to be strong enough to contain a nuclear blast. Assume it will be used to hold someone or something extraordinarily dangerous. Black out the windows. I don’t care how much it costs.”

“Sounds interesting,” the woman says. “But people might get suspicious. What if someone asks me why I’m building a high-security holding cell on the 175th floor of the MX Global building?”

Kent hears her shift positions on the leather sofa.

“Ignore them. If they persist, tell them we need a high-tech workout room for all the youngsters we have put to work up here. And let me know who asks.”

There’s movement on the slate’s bluescreen beside Kent. Glancing at it, he sees that the voice assay anigraph has stopped. In its place there are two words in bright green.

Match confirmed.

No doubt about it. He’s listening to Ryzaard.

Ryzaard walks back across the room and drops into the wooden chair. Kent hears a scraping sound like the opening of a drawer in a desk. Fingers fumble with cellophane packaging. A match is struck, and it ignites with an audible burst of flame, a sound Kent hasn’t heard for twenty years. Someone takes a deep drag on a cigarette and exhales. Kent can almost smell the smoke.

He imagines Ryzaard throwing his head back and blowing a long stream of blue-white up to the ceiling, just like his grandpa when Kent was a child.

Ryzaard turns in his chair, as if he is talking directly to Kent, jolting him out of his reverie.

“That boy is going to be a problem. He knows we want the Stone. He knows we are trying to find him and kill him. He will be expecting us to come after him.”

“So what do we do?” says the woman.

Another long drag on the cigarette, and then a relaxing exhale.

“I have been thinking about it. Perhaps I have been in too much of a hurry. Perhaps we should just let him sit and stew for a few days.” Ryzaard speaks evenly and clearly. “We have his girlfriend and his jax. We will restart the tracking protocol, and find out where he is hiding. Then we will set the trap, and the next time, there will not be any mistakes.”

“Yes, the next time,” says the woman, laughing softly.

Kent hears the sound of a cork coming out of a bottle, and the gentle pouring of liquid into a two glasses. The wooden chair creaks as Ryzaard stands. Kent can hear Ryzaard walk across the room as the sound of footsteps passes from Kent’s left ear to his right ear. The woman moves on the couch, and Ryzaard sits down.

Kent hears the crystal chime of two glasses touching together in a toast.

“To the next time,” Ryzaard says.

M
att finishes off the eggs and bacon, picks up his plate and walks it over to the sink. It is already full of layers of dirty dishes, cups and a frying pan.

In the silence of the room, Matt can’t hold back thoughts of Professor Yamamoto. Nausea builds in his stomach as he again sees Ryzaard thrusting the dagger into the professor’s chest, making a dry scraping sound. For an instant, he closes his eyes and brings his hands up to his ears, a useless attempt to shut out the haunting memory. He can’t hold back the obvious conclusion that distills into words in his mind.

It’s my fault the professor is dead. Ryzaard followed me to his office.

In the silence of the room, thoughts of Jessica rush into his mind like a pack of lions swarming a wounded elephant. Panic spreads through his gut. In his mind’s eye, he sees her slumped limply in the chair, head hanging down, eyes closed. Ryzaard is standing over her with a dagger in his hand, making ominous threats. It is all fresh in his memory, an open wound.

He sees the truth. She’s been pulled into this nightmare because of Matt. His reckless use of the jax led them to her.

If only I had listened to Dad
, he thinks.

That triggers another thought. Has Ryzaard been able to trace any messages that might lead his men to Matt’s dad? Probably not, since his dad left, tossed his jax and cut all direct communication between them. But how can he be sure?

And the answer is simple. He can’t.

No matter what, Matt has to find and protect the woman he loves. His thoughts go to the Stone.

As if drawn by a magnet, his eyes drop to the small gray box on the table. He tries to look away, but it pulls on his gaze like open water to a man dying of thirst. An urge to grab it and run surges through his arms and legs. His heart beats faster. Naganuma’s words float through his mind, something about the box keeping the Stone hidden from Ryzaard.

Matt feels warmth on his face and turns away from the table to the first rays of the rising sun framed in the glass of the sliding door. Walking forward to see the sunrise, he stands at the entrance and gazes into the bright orange orb emerging above the distant mountain ranges.

It slows his breathing, at least for a few seconds.

But thoughts of Jessica muscle their way back into his mind. They dance around the edges at first, and then he embraces them wholly.

Ryzaard intends to kill her. Matt saw it in his eyes. He will do it without remorse or mercy.

An explosion of panic rises up and displaces all other emotions. His chest tightens and makes it hard to breathe. Before he knows what he is doing, he spins around and grabs the stone box off the table. It is incredibly light, and the lack of weight throws him off. Maybe it’s empty. He shakes it hard, straining to hear the sound of stone knocking against stone.

But it’s silent inside.

The lid opens easily on tiny hinges. He stares into the depths and sees the Stone, his Stone, lying snuggly inside, black as obsidian, the same as when he found it. It falls out when he tips the box upside down and drops into his other hand, heavy and solid in his grip. It feels good. Comfortable. Natural.

Stepping down from the main floor, he slips into his shoes and slides the front door open to gaze out at the shrine grounds. The world is bathed in pristine silence except for a single chirping bird. With the sun now above the horizon, he observes the mist hanging over the lush emerald valley below. As far as he can see, the trees line up in neat rows as if straightened by a giant comb, a testament to the Japanese penchant for meticulous simplicity, even in nature.

Half expecting to see Naganuma appear and rail at him for taking the Stone, Matt steps onto the ground and runs out to the main walkway. There’s the distinct sound behind him of wood scraping on wood. He spins around to see the figure of the old priest, standing in front of the open door of the main shrine fifty meters away, staring in his direction. Matt waves and pretends to be outside enjoying the scenery and waiting for Naganuma to return. The priest disappears back into the main shrine, apparently not concerned.

Matt thinks about what he is doing. How far can he get on foot? How far away is Jessica? How long will it take to get to her? Judging from the dirt road winding down into the valley, the nearest town must be hours away. It could take days to hike to the nearest train station, even if he knew the way. He needs something faster. A wild thought enters his mind, only to be discarded. Then it creeps back in and refuses to leave.