The name and number meant nothing to me so I examined another box. And then another box. And yet another box. They were all the same. Same contents. Same cardboard. Same ink.
I moved to another stack and began checking those boxes as well. Again, they were the same. Same contents, same, cardboard, same ink. Same…
What the…?
I did a double-take. Then I looked again at a particular box, at its two lines of text.
#1743. Justin Reed.
No. No, that was impossible. Utterly, completely impossible. And yet…
I knew the name Justin Reed. Not personally, of course, but I knew it all the same.
Justin Reed? I thought. As in, my grandfather, Justin Reed?
Chapter 23
What are you up to, Malware? I wondered. And what does it have to do with my grandfather?
“Hey Dutch,” I called out.
“Yeah?”
“Did you know Dad’s dad?”
“What does that—?”
“Did you know him?”
A short pause followed. “I never met him, but I know of him. His name was Justin.”
I closed my eyes. Justin. Justin Reed.
“He disappeared in the late 1940s,” Graham continued. “1949, I believe.”
1949. Just a few years before Five Borough Bank had gone out of business. Why was my grandfather’s name written on that old cardboard box? Had he been a client of the bank? “Disappeared?” I frowned. “Don’t you mean he ran away? Abandoned his family?”
“Your dad never bought that story.”
I had lots of questions, but no time to answer them. All I knew was that this wasn’t a coincidence. Malware hadn’t brought me here solely for my skill set. Somehow, she knew about my grandfather.
I pulled out my satphone. The time was 10:27 p.m. Quickly, I typed in a message: Box #1743. Belonged to Justin Reed.
YES, Malware replied.
What’s this all about?
Wouldn’t you like to know?
Yes, actually.
Let’s just say I have a keen interest in your grandpa.
Why? I wrote.
Maybe I’m obsessed with you.
Who could blame you? So, let Beverly go and we’ll run off into the sunset.
I’m going to hold you to that. But first, you’d better hurry. The clock is still ticking.
No, it’s not. The game’s over.
Not yet. Your instructions were to excavate the box AND send me the contents.
I glanced at the tattered box. It was stuffed full of papers. Which ones did she want, exactly? Were they even still in the box or had they been tossed aside years ago?
Since you’re short on time, I’m going to cut you a break, Malware added. Point your camera at each page of the Capitalist Curtain papers. Once I’ve got the images, our little game will end.
What about Beverly?
If you do as I ask, she’ll be released.
I rooted around in the box. Stuffed up against the side, I located a packet of stapled papers. They were small in size and looked like they’d been torn out of a journal. The words, Project Capitalist Curtain, were handwritten across the top sheet.
I wrenched the packet out of the box and shook off some thick dust clumps. The papers had taken on a yellowish sheen and felt brittle to the touch. Several were stained with what looked like coffee.
I placed the packet on the ground. Glancing at my satphone, I saw the camera function was on. I started to move the satphone into position over the packet. But then I hesitated.
Once Malware had her pictures, what was to stop her from going back on her word? Maybe it was better to just take the packet and leave the building. Demand a face-to-face meeting with her. But what if she decided to kill Beverly because I missed her deadline?
An internal tug-of-war played out in my head. Finally, I brought the satphone above the packet. One by one, I rifled through the papers, switching every time the camera flashed. There were twelve in total, all marked with scribbled lines of penmanship and several hand-drawn diagrams. I saw mentions of Canada, Australia, and Greenland, among other countries. I saw references to the U.S. Army and something called Shrieker Tower. And I noticed a few familiar names. Justin Reed, for one. Harry S. Truman, the thirty-third President of the United States, for another.
Graham cleared his throat. “What is that stuff?”
“Project Capitalist Curtain,” I replied. “Ever heard of it?”
He shook his head.
After the twelfth camera flash, I looked at my satphone. A message appeared on the screen.
Game over.
It’s about time, I replied. Now, where’s Beverly?
Sorry.
A creepy feeling crept down my spine. You got what you wanted.
Yes. But not on time.
I checked my satphone and saw the time was 10:31 p.m. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Adrenaline raced through my body like it always did in crisis situations. This time, however, was different.
This time, there was no one to fight.
She’s innocent, I replied.
A new message, containing a small image, appeared on the screen. Frowning, I clicked it.
More grainy video of Beverly appeared. She thrashed about in her chair, biting her gag. Her eyes were still yoked open and I saw growing horror in her pupils.
The barrel of a gun appeared at the edge of the screen. It moved to her temple. A burst of light flashed. Smoke filled the grainy image.
Graham’s hand touched my shoulder, but I barely noticed it. Instead, I peered at the screen, waiting for the smoke to fade. And when it did, I saw her. I saw her body, still and slumped in the chair. I saw her twitching fingers, her drooling mouth. But most of all I saw the gaping hole in her skull.
My heart shattered into a million pieces from which I knew it would never recover. I tried to deny it, to hope for a miracle. But it was useless.
Beverly Ginger was dead.
Chapter 24
“Good evening, Ben.” Rising to his feet, President Wade Walters extended his hand across the Resolute Desk. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Me neither, Mr. President.” Ben took the president’s hand in his own. He shook it warmly, if a bit limply.
“I’d like you to meet someone.” The president waved at a tall, lanky man with oversized limbs and a shaved head. “This is Special Agent Ed Hooper. Ed, this is one of my closest friends, Ben Marvin.”
Hooper rose from his seat and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ben.”
“Special Agent, huh?” Ben gave the outstretched hand a light shake. “Did I do something wrong?”
Hooper smiled, sending ripples through his lined, pockmarked face. “I don’t know. Did you?”
Ben blinked. “I, uh… well, uh…”
“Don’t mind him.” President Walters loosened his tie and ran a hand through his neatly-styled silver hair. “Ed works for the Secret Service, specifically with counterfeiting and fraud. Suspicion is second nature to him.”
“I see.” Ben gripped and regripped the handle of his briefcase. “Well, are you ready to begin, sir?”
The president glanced at Hooper. “Thanks for the update. I’ll call—”
Hooper met his gaze. “Actually, sir, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stick around for this.”