Turning in a circle, I saw several large signs, mounted on fancy easels. They screamed, Welcome to The Falcon! in elaborate calligraphy. I hiked to the closest sign and looked it up and down. “Please pardon our mess,” I read aloud. “And dream of what will be.”
“Ugh.” Graham made a face. “What kind of cheeseball wrote that crap?”
“A green one. I think this is one of those high-end, eco-friendly apartment buildings, designed to provide enough self-satisfaction to last a lifetime.”
“I wish I was rich. It must be nice to feel morally superior all the time.”
I skimmed over the rest of the sign. It spoke of plans for natural light, renewable construction materials, green power sources, and a private ecological courtyard stocked with plants indigenous to the area. Apparently, those plans were now on hold, probably due to the recession.
“What’s wrong with this concrete?” Kneeling down, Graham studied a shallow hole. “It looks uneven.”
“It’s layered,” I replied. “Rather than strip out old concrete, developers sometimes just add a fresh layer and use a bonding agent to keep it in place. It’s not the greatest way to do things, but it can save costs.”
“So, this is basically a concrete sandwich?”
“Yes. And it’s just as tasty as its knuckle-counterpart.” I pointed my flashlight into the hole, illuminating four layers of concrete. The lowest layer, crumbling and cracking in various places, looked like it had sat there for decades. “See the wood grain pattern on that bottom layer?”
He nodded.
“That’s board formed concrete. In other words, wood was used as the forming material.”
“Is that important?”
“Nobody uses wood these days unless they want the texture. I’d be willing to bet this concrete was laid before panel formed concrete came to prominence. In other words, between the early 1900s and the 1950s. Which means it probably lacks steel reinforcing.”
“It looks like all those urban archaeology classes are finally paying off.”
“Yup,” I replied. But the truth was more complex than that. I’d first learned about concrete while tagging along with Dad to one of his many work sites. Since I wasn’t allowed to wander off on my own, I’d sit around, bored as could be, listening to him prattle on about concrete, cement, and God knows what else. Amazingly, I never forgot any of it.
“The point is this,” I said. “This board formed concrete got covered up over the years. And without steel reinforcing, it eroded at a relatively quick rate. So, while the floor looked fine on the surface, it was secretly rotting away from within.”
Graham picked up some rubble lying in the shallow hole and rubbed it in his fingers. “How much would it cost to fix something like this?”
My gaze flitted around the unfinished lobby. “Apparently, too much.”
My mind drifted and I found myself thinking about Beverly, about that grainy video. About her gagged mouth, her bruised legs, her cut-up torso. And most of all, about that look in her eyes. That crazed, fearful look. Like she was about to enter a seething well of madness from which she might never return.
The satphone vibrated in my hands. Switching off the flashlight function, I checked the screen.
You’re welcome, it read.
For what? I wrote back. Gracing us with your virtual presence?
For opening the door, Malware replied. I didn’t have to, you know.
A soft click rang out. A dull whining noise, one I hadn’t noticed before, faded away into the darkness.
I glanced at the door and noticed a metal box mounted on the wall. I walked over and opened it up. Inside, I saw a computer screen along with a pull-out keypad. The screen was dark, lifeless.
“Whatcha got there?” Graham asked.
“It looks like some kind of electronic locking mechanism,” I replied. “Malware must’ve hacked it.”
“That’s how we got in here?” He rubbed his jaw. “We’re like two puppets being led around a stage.”
“Let’s just hope she doesn’t cut our strings before the show ends.”
Most of my digs and salvage jobs had taken place in extremely remote locations. In places where computer networks, cell phone towers, and the like were either nonexistent or barely functional. So, while I’d faced all sorts of criminals over the last few years — crooked policemen, dirty politicians, smugglers, grave robbers, black market dealers, and so on — a hacker was new territory for me.
Texting is so impersonal, I wrote back. If you send me your address, I’ll thank you in person.
Tempting, but I’d hate to make your little girlfriend here jealous. Are you ready for another round of Do or Die?
You need a new game.
But this one is soooo much fun.
A small image appeared. I clicked it and another grainy video filled the screen. It began to play and I saw a long shot of Beverly. She sat in the same folding chair, bound in the same chains, and with those same horrid speculums attached to her eyes.
The camera panned in close and I was forced to look away. My gaze flitted to her surroundings, searching for clues. But all I saw was white walls and beige carpet.
The video ended and deleted itself. A new message popped up on the screen. I need you to excavate the box and send me the contents, I read. Or she’ll… well, you know the rest.
What box? I wrote back. How do I find it?
If I told you, it wouldn’t be much of a game, would it? Oh, and Cy?
I arched an eyebrow, wondering what kind of ridiculous time frame Malware was about to give me. The unexcavated box, whatever it was, most likely lay beneath the concrete. To find it, I’d need a high-powered multiple-input, multiple output phased array radar system. And to dig it out, I’d need a concrete saw or something similar. With the right tools, I could probably do the job in twenty-four hours.
My gaze swept across the unfinished lobby. I saw hammers, saws, drills, and other handheld tools. But nothing even close to a MIMO system or a concrete saw. How am I supposed to get through that concrete? I wondered. With my teeth?
My satphone vibrated and I glanced at the new message. Then I blinked. Did a double take and read it again.
You have one hour, I read. Or she dies.
Chapter 17
“One hour?” Disbelief filled Graham’s voice. “That’s impossible.”
Not only was it impossible. It was an utterly ridiculous, not-even-in-the-right-ballpark amount of time.
I mulled the situation over in my head. Earlier, Malware had seemingly given us far too much time. But we’d needed every second of it to get through the riot. Now, she’d given us far too little time. Either she was crazy or…
“There has to be a trick to this.” I checked my satphone. The time was 9:30 p.m. “What do you know about this building?”
“It’s infested with cockroaches,” Graham replied as an army of little bugs scurried up and over his brown boots.
“Do you know what was here before The Falcon?”
He shook his head. “I can barely keep track of what’s happening on my own street, let alone one I barely visit.”