A body pushed its way toward the safe and then Will was crouching beside Jack, peering at the tumbler, rubber-banded files in his hand. “Five left,” he whispered. “Twenty-seven right…”
“Ninety left,” Jack finished for him. “My birth date.”
The safe cranked open and Will vanished.
Beth had a roll of black plastic tape in the pocket of her fatigues. Laying the rifle on the boards she placed the ball-and-box device as flush as possible against the rifle’s frame-the device’s LED screen facing toward the stock, the ball toward the barrel-and started looping the tape around the body. It held okay but the thing really needed a custom mount or a Picatinny rail. This was just messy.
Beth placed a can of nails on an old camp chair, moved it to just in front of the hayloft doors, and rested the rifle on it with the ball-sensor facing toward the closed wooden doors. She checked her watch and waited.
The file inside the safe was thin, unimpressive. It contained paperwork. Property. H. G. Wells owned a swimming hall. Inside the folder was taped a single key.
That wasn’t what got Jack’s attention. Jack put the property folder back in the safe and examined a two-page document with the alarming heading of PANIC BUTTONS.
Jack scanned it quickly.
Locations: Attic, kitchen, Jack’s bedroom.
Maintenance: check the seals on the jugs at least once every six (6) months. They need to be airtight. If the seals degrade the ether will dissipate.
Attic goes first. Second-floor goes sixty (60) seconds later. If second floor fails expect the attic to collapse into the second floor after about twenty minutes.
Sensitive materials to be packed closest to the jugs in attic and Jack’s room to ensure vaporization.
Jack sat with that for a while. Then he looked to the four corners of the attic. Crap and junk were piled into all the corners. He picked up Squish, got to his feet, and investigated the farthest corner, the one stacked with document boxes. He pulled them aside, made his way through a couple of layers, and was rewarded with the sight of something that made him take a step back.
Hiding beneath it all was a glass jug-just a gallon-sitting flush against the wall with what looked like a pipe bomb lashed to it with fraying old duct tape. The gallon was full to the brim with a clear liquid and stoppered with caulk. A thick green wire led from the bomb and down through a crack in the dusty floorboards.
On the wooden shelf above the device was a folder. On the cover was a hand-drawn rendering of the twelve-sided sphere Jack had seen in his bedroom.
Jack’s phone bleeped, causing him to flinch violently. “Fuck me.” The name on the screen was NICK (CAB).
He rested Squish on the topmost box and was about to take the call when something within him pulsed. The feeling was new yet familiar. He had felt it hours prior, before the first stutter had hit. “Nick?”
“Jack. Dude. Are you still at the house?”
Jack looked at the corner behind him. Glass glinted at him from between a couple of apple crates. There’d be one hidden in each corner. Will had wired the attic to become a fireball. “Why?”
“TV. Turn it on.”
Christ. How had Will set this up without killing himself? The guy couldn’t make cereal without setting fire to the curtains.
Jack navigated out of the mess, back to the desk, and turned on the crappy little flat-screen. Weather channel. “What am I looking for?”
“Channel twelve.”
Jack flipped through. Kitchen appliances. Who’s The Boss? Sharks. Nazis. His face. “What the f-?”
“Yeah. You mind explaining that?”
Jack reached for the volume. “Shut up for a second.”
It was his face, but the voice he heard was deep, soothing, masculine: “… reliably informed is Jack Joyce, the brother of a specialist Monarch Innovations fired some time ago. Monarch Security is working with the Riverport Police Department to determine if that is a relevant detail. We have multiple survivor reports which indicate that Joyce’s stated intent was to detonate the library with the protestors inside. It would be irresponsible of me to speculate about motive at this stage but it is clear that he is associated with this so-called ‘Peace Movement.’”
Cut to a live broadcast, on-campus. The reporter was pretty, Asian-American. Her interview subject was African-American, dark-skinned, bald, and a solid fifteen inches taller. The owner of that deep, soothing voice.
It was the lazy gaze and the unhurried speech; the way Hatch didn’t look at the reporter but straight at the camera, no blinking. Standing thin inside that five-figure suit Martin Hatch radiated the threat potential of an apex predator.
The effect was smooth, and deep, and hypnotic, and made Jack dislike him immediately.
“Jack Joyce is a career itinerant with a preference for world hotspots: Afghanistan, Syria, Thailand. He has the interest of the RPD, FBI, NSA, DHS, and Monarch Security. If you see this man do not approach. Call 911 immediately. Thank you.”
The report cut to a live feed from the site of the library’s smoking ruins. Early morning sunlight flashed off wet, black timber. Arcs from fire hoses cast rainbows. Jack’s throat closed. His brother’s remains were somewhere under that.
The reporter’s expression was stern, standard-issue, her features pleasant. His gut kicked again. “Jack Joyce, who has had numerous prior run-ins with the law, is suspected of attempted murder and the premature demolition of the Riverport University library. His accompliii…”
The moment dragged out for what felt like seconds, the image on the screen crawling, deinterlacing. Nausea rose in his gut as the second stretched and divided, stretched and then… snapped back into shape.
“… iiiice and brother, William Joyce, who had directed threats at university staff after being fired, died in the library explosion. The Riverport Police Department urgently requests that any information regarding Jack Joyce’s whereabouts be directed to them immediately.”
A stutter was coming. And soon.
Nick cleared his throat.
“Monarch’s outside my house, Jack. Do I go in?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“What about my dad?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
The volume on the phone dipped then spiked. “Hang on. Someone’s calling. Shit, I think it’s… they’re calling from my dad’s phone.”
“Don’t answer.”
“They’ve got my dad.”
“They can’t threaten you if you don’t answer.” Jack’s phone trilled in his ear. Fuck. Unknown number.
“They calling you now?”
“Nick, I take it back. Go in, tell them I abducted you. Do what’s best for yourself and your dad. Whatever happens I don’t blame you for it.”
Jack ended both calls and then flinched as a nearby bell complained: heavy, shrill, and loud. The thirty-five-year-old Bakelite phone on the wall was vibrating. Jack’s nostrils flared; he made a decision and picked up-angry. “Call my cell.” And hung up. His cell phone rang. “So what do we do?”
“Jack.”
Paul. A thousand words couldn’t release everything that fought to get out, so Jack lowballed it. “Explain.” Walking to the window he could see the barn, but no sign of Beth.
“I’m sorry about Will.”
Fury came out matter-of-fact chipper. “You will be.”
Paul didn’t acknowledge the threat. “I thought a long time about Will. I didn’t want that. But he forced my hand, Jack.”
“Hey, no worries, Paul. We’re still solid, yeah?” Jack experienced an anger so profound it messed with his vision. His phone’s casing surrendered a meek little pop.
“What I did will haunt me till I die.”