Remote (11 page)

“I’ll have an out.  The chains will be rigged, I’ll have the chemical counteragent.”

“Sure.  As long as he uses the right class of drug.  As long as he doesn’t slap more restraints on you.  As long as he doesn’t lock you in a cage or stick a gun in your face or dangle you off a goddamn cliff while you’re helpless.”

“If he dangles me off the edge of a cliff,” he said, “my last words will be ‘Nikki, you were right.”

 “Not good enough.  Make them, ‘Nikki, you were right, and I’m an asshole.’”

“I promise.”

***

Jack knew he was somewhere on the Pacific coast, but most of that area was heavily forested; he might be able to go to ground somewhere in the woods.  Of course, he’d have to get out of the house, first—and then he’d still be naked and unarmed, wounded and lost in the wild in November.  He could die of exposure while unconscious, or be discovered by a hungry bear or cougar. 

But any of those choices were better than staying in this house.  Because Remote himself could walk through that door at any second . . .

Jack bolted out of the wheelchair.

He dove through the inner door, staying low, hoping his evaluation of Remote was accurate.  Personal confrontation wasn’t something the man would seek out; he liked to manipulate people from afar, to keep as many barriers as possible between himself and any consequences.  Jack thought he might study his new acquisition for a moment or two from a hidden camera before deciding to show up in person; the door had no doubt been opened electronically from another location, which meant Remote was probably on his way right now.

Jack found himself in another foyer, lit by a skylight from above.  A staircase to the left led to the second floor, and two different hallways branched off to the right and straight ahead.  The floor was carpeted in a thick white shag, the walls painted a flat eggshell white.  Some sort of display case with a miniature castle in it was set into the wall at the base of the stairwell.

Behind him, the foyer door closed and relocked itself with a loud click.    Jack froze, listening intently, trying to ignore the burns throbbing on his arms and legs.  He heard another door shut, not softly.  The
thunk
that followed was clearly a bolt being thrown.  Both noises came from upstairs.

Jack sprinted down the hallway directly ahead of him, moving more on blind instinct than any plan.  Remote had just locked himself in.  This was his home turf, and it would be well-defended. . .but at least Jack was inside the castle walls.

All he had to do now was survive.

***

 “Relax,” Nikki said.  “I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but we’re not going to kill you.  Co-operate and you’ll be free in a few days.”

Dennison Parkins stared at her.  He was cuffed to a pipe in the basement, but he was no longer gagged and had one hand free.  Nikki stood a few feet away, her features hidden by a veil draped over a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of over-sized sunglasses.  She knew Parkins had seen her face when he first picked her up, but she’d been wearing so much make-up she doubted he could pick her out of a line-up now.  Besides, keeping her features hidden reassured Parkins that he had a chance of coming out of this alive.

“You keep saying that,” he said.  “I’m still a little unclear on what ‘this’
is
.  I mean, if it’s a kidnapping, you picked the wrong guy.”

She crossed her arms.  “Denny, Denny, Denny.  That is
not
a good tactic for someone in your situation.  You want to convince me that your family will cough up megabucks for your release, okay?  Otherwise, I may start seeing you as a liability to get rid of rather than an investment I should protect.”

Parkins swallowed.  “Okay, good point.  My bad.”

“No, your bad was—“ She stopped.  What exactly was Parkins’ crime, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time?  She couldn’t tell him the truth about his situation—in fact, she shouldn’t be talking to him at all.  “Fuck it.  We just need you out of the way for a few days, that’s all.  After that, we’ll let you go.”

“You’re—you’re not afraid I’ll go to the police?”

She shook her head.  “Jesus, Denny, don’t you have any survival instincts at all?  That’s the last thing you should be suggesting--to me, anyway.”

He looked miserable.  “I know, but—the whole conversation’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? I swear I won’t go to the cops, and you say someone in my position would of
course
say that.   You think I’m lying to you, and it pisses you off.”

He gave her a tentative smile.  “Hey, the last thing I want to do right now is piss you off, okay?”

“Believe me, Denny—you piss me off, you’ll know about it.  And the conversation you think we’re gonna have?  Not quite as obvious as you might think.  For instance, you
aren’t
going to go to the cops, and I’ll tell you why.  Because if you do, what
will
become obvious is what you were doing when we grabbed you.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.  And don’t think you can spin this with some kind of ‘my word against theirs’ bullshit.  I have every word you said to me on tape, and I’ll send copies to both the media and the cops.  I don’t think your wife and kids are going to be too happy about that.”

“Ah, crap.”  Parkins slumped against the basement wall and closed his eyes.  “So this isn’t about ransom.  It’s about blackmail.”

“Not the way you think.  All we want is for you to disappear for a few days, and keep your mouth shut afterward about what really happened to you.”

“What am I supposed to do?  Tell people I was abducted by aliens?”

“Oh, I think we can do a little better than that.”  She grabbed a folding chair leaning against the furnace, set it up and sat down.  “In fact, we’ve got a few days to come up with something believable.   Let’s see what we can do.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her.  “You’re going to help me come up with an alibi?”

She shrugged.  “Seems like the least I can do.  And hey, it’s not like I have anything better going on.”

***

The hallway led to a kitchen—but it was like no kitchen Jack had ever seen.

There was no stove, though there was a large microwave.  The floor was covered in what looked like thick, industrial rubber that gave spongily under his bare feet.  There was a huge stainless-steel fridge, several spotless white counters and a marble-topped island in the center.  The one window was large, barred, and made of thick, shatterproof plastic.

He opened doors, cupboards, drawers, looking for something to use as a weapon.  He found plastic bowls and plates, plastic cutlery, paper towels.  No pots, no pans, no knives.  The fridge held condiments in plastic jars and some pastries.  The freezer was full of frozen fruits and vegetables in plastic bags—no meat. 

Six pairs of heavy leather work-gloves filled one drawer.  Another held several books on microwave cooking.  There were no canned goods, and only a few spices.  The only cleaning supplies under the sink were a mild soap and a bottle of diluted vinegar.  Unless he planned on blinding Remote with a handful of basil, the kitchen held almost nothing he could use.

Almost.

He dumped a plastic jar of mustard in the sink, then ran the hot water.  He kept an eye on the door as he did so, expecting Remote to make an appearance at any second with a gun in his hand.

“You’re wasting your time.”  The voice came from a small, inset speaker on the ceiling.  “With the water.  It won’t get any hotter than it is right now.”

Jack tested the stream with his finger.  Luke-warm, and that’s how it stayed. 

“You were planning on using it as a potential weapon, yes?  Fill that jar with scalding hot water and maybe throw it in my face?”

Jack filled the jar with water.  “So you can see me,” he said.  He opened the microwave, put the jar inside.

“And hear you, yes.  I’m afraid the microwave won’t do you any good, either.”

Jack studied the controls on the front, set it to high power for three minutes.  “Why is that?”

“It’s been modified with a temperature sensor.  If anything within gets hotter than one hundred degrees, it shuts off.”

The microwave beeped and turned off.  Jack opened it, tested the water.  Barely above body temperature. 

“You’re very prepared,” Jack said. 

“As were you.  I suppose I really shouldn’t have taken the risk, but the more I thought about it the greater the temptation became.  You’re not Parkins.”

“No.”

“I thought not.  Hello, Closer.  It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“We haven’t met yet.”

The voice chuckled.  “Not technically, no.  I’m surprised you didn’t try to capture my drone.”

“Why take a pawn when you can trap the King?”  Jack began to search through the drawers again, this time more thoroughly. 

“He’s more of a knight than a pawn, really.  Quite useful when I need something done I can’t supervise myself.”

Jack found what he was looking for in the drawer with the gloves, stuffed in the very back; a canvas shopping bag.  He went over to the fridge, opened the freezer door, and start rummaging through the contents.

He dumped several blocks of frozen tofu, the contents of two ice cube trays and a bag of frozen peas in the bag, then tied it in a knot.  Swung by the handles, it would make a halfway decent club.  He pressed the cold bag against the burns on the inside of his leg; it helped a little, but his other injuries were still intensely uncomfortable.  The bases of his ears where he’d removed his earlobes radiated pain with a steady, pulsing frequency. 

“I’m actually glad you’re here,” Remote said.  “I don’t blame you for the deception—after all, what sort of ally would I be if I were so easily caught?”

“Good question.  I suppose you could say the same about me.” Jack got a firm grip on his improvised weapon and peered into the hall.  Empty.  No more than ten minutes had passed since he’d woken up in the wheelchair, which meant he had maybe another fifty left before the benzodiazepine kicked in again and he passed out.

“But who has caught whom, Closer?”  Remote’s voice was intent, excited.  “That’s the real question, isn’t it?” 

“I guess it is.”

“Outstanding.  Let’s see how we both do . . .”

P
ART
T
WO: 
M
ECHANISM

The machine does not isolate man from the great problems of nature but plunges him more deeply into them.
  –Saint-Exupéry,
Wind, Sand, and Stars
, 1939

C
HAPTER
T
EN

People started calling Gordy Mason “Goliath” when he was still in grade school.  He was always big for his age, and he used that size to get what he wanted; he was a born bully, and by the time he dropped out of high school and got his first bike he pretty much knew what he wanted out of life and how to get it.  He lived in a blur of drugs, violence, sex, and speed, and figured he’d be dead before he hit thirty. 

Despite that, he wasn’t stupid.  Cruel, selfish, reckless and quick-tempered, yes—but his brain, even after decades of drug and alcohol abuse, still worked pretty well.  Goliath even understood the basic principle of evolution: the weak died and the strong got to pass on their genes.  So far nothing Goliath had encountered had managed to kill him, and he had at least four illegitimate kids by four different women.  He figured that meant he had to be pretty damn evolved.

He was more than just a killer; he was a survivor.  He’d wrecked his bike three times and walked away twice--the third time had given him fourteen broken bones and a lingering addiction to painkillers, but he still rode and could kick the shit out of most guys half his age.  He’d done a few stretches behind bars, but never went away for anything serious.  He was too smart for that. 

And if there was one thing he’d learned how to do in stir, it was scope out a situation.

He’d shanked three guys in prison, killing two and putting one in intensive care.  He’d gotten away with it every time, never spent so much as a day in solitary—not for the murders, anyway.  He knew how to lay low when he had to, when to use his size to make people think he was slow and thick.   Being tough had nothing to do with how much pain you could cause, it had to do with how much pain you could take.  Goliath’s initiation, back when he was eighteen, involved six bikers pounding on him in a parking lot for five minutes with their fists and feet; when they were done he’d stood up, walked back into the bar and bought them all a drink. 

He was closer to forty than thirty now, and had no intention of dying anytime soon.  Not without taking somebody else with him, anyway.

He still couldn’t believe he’d been taken like a rank fucking amateur.  Guy must have slipped something in his drink—last thing he remembered was downing a shot in the bar.  Woke up in chains, with some kind of helmet strapped to his head.  The first thing he figured was it had to be some kind of asshole stunt by one of his gang brothers, but that thought didn’t live long—he was too feared by the younger ones and too respected by the older members.  Cops wouldn’t pull this kind of bullshit.  He’d roared obscenities at the top of his lungs just to see what kind of reaction he’d get, but he didn’t get anything at all. 

Then the needle had gone in and he’d thought he was about to take another ride on the coma express, but nothing had happened; it was just an IV drip, probably saline, which meant he was going to be here a while. 

The chains gave him a little movement, but not enough to lie down or remove the damn helmet.  When he started to nod off out of sheer boredom, the music started blaring in his ears.  A little too modern for his tastes—Goliath preferred old school heavy metal over industrial or thrash—but at least it wasn’t Pat Boone or some godawful country crap. 

But it made going to sleep impossible. 

He got it right away.  Sleep deprivation, like the kind the US government used to interrogate terrorists.  Which meant he’d been kidnapped by some branch of Homeland Security, probably a black ops CIA squad operating illegally inside American borders.  Goliath knew all about things like that; about the only thing he read besides chopper periodicals and Harley manuals was Soldier of Fortune magazine.