Location Undisclosed
Reality sprung itself upon “Joanna” with such sudden violence that she didn’t know what to do. Seated beside the calming Pacific, the Siren went through stage after stage of dealing with the shock of disillusionment. Mathew Marques had used her.
Denial struck first. There must be some mistake; a signal must have been crossed. Maybe she’d gotten the wrong impression. The word on the street was that a Golem-sympathizer posing under the name “Joanna” was the source of the
With all of her illusions shattered, “Joanna” was left with nothing holding her back. True, she might be but a shadow of her former self, but being a shadow has some distinct advantages. Shadows can’t be grasped; clutching hands come up with nothing but air. Searching ears hear nothing as the shadow moves with only the slightest of whispers. No longer hindered by the illusions of reality, “Joanna” was no longer hindered by the illusions that are reality. Devious thoughts set to work behind blue eyes. From her desk’s hidden vault she drew out a small cassette tape. That tape was the first step to realizing that branded, burning word: revenge.
FBI Centre,
Warren Bach grit his teeth and walked away from the interrogation booth, away from the two-way mirror and the sinewy man cuffed to the chair on the other side. That man, a Gary McManneth from
The pieces were slowly coming together and the picture this puzzle was forming was one that Agent Bach didn’t like. The first line was pointing to what John Shaw had jumped at: a conspiracy.
And then there was the cash. Common sense would dictate that a cash transaction of that level, nearly half a million dollars, would have set off some federal watchdog – red flags should have gone up, but they didn’t. These days everybody was liquidating. The hammer of reality had struck the dot com dream of retiring by thirty and transactions in the millions were numerous. And that was ruling out the theory that the money had been taken out piecemeal or from multiple bank accounts. Who was behind this? Would go to this much trouble just to have Ken Morrison killed?
They knew that much, this was most defiantly an attempt on Ken Morrison. The President-Elect had just been a “target of opportunity” as Wetmore put it. This knowledge had led the group on its first wild goose chase. Bach had made some phone calls to friends in other agencies and assembled a bare-knuckled, hard-nosed look at who Ken Morrison was. With all respects to the dead – Bush had labelled the guy a National Hero – Bach wanted his ghosts. He had to know what Morrison had known in order to discover who was afraid. Fear: one hell of a motivator. It ranked with greed as the two means to any end. In the end, Warren Bach did know exactly what Morrison did. He knew Morrison was a bad Catholic. He knew Morrison had a girl on the side about ten years ago. He knew Morrison was a little behind on his Visa payments. In the end, Bach knew what Morrison knew – nothing. So, Bach drilled deeper. The tests on McManneth got more extensive. His team tried every means possible short of torture – much to the chagrin of Smith – to get the truth out of their boy Gary.
Recollected,
“How are you feeling today
“It still hurts a bit. I’m getting used to these handcuffs finally.”
“You’ve been wearing them for what, a week now?”
“You’re not going to threaten me.”
“
“You can’t get blood from a stone.”
“Good thing you’re flesh.”
“Damn it! I told you, I don’t know anything about the people I was working for. We never met.”
“How did you communicate?”
“The internet, Instant Messenger. You can get it free on AOL.com.”
“What was the screen name?”
“I don’t remember.”
They’d had this conversation a hundred times over the past seven days, each time it had dead ended right here. Bach would circle about, try a different tactic, but always when he came to try for the identity of the masked party he would be stone walled.
“There’s so much I don’t understand about you Gary.”
“That’s the first right thing you’ve said since I been here.”
“See, all this time I’ve been thinking that you were used, that you’ve been part of something larger. I just wasn’t getting it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“There was no other person was there? I think you’ve built yourself one hell of a cover, I’ll give you credit for that. You’ve created your own second gunman, with the money and unknown identity. I’ll make sure you get credit for that, brilliant, utterly brilliant.”
“You can’t be serious. Why would I go through all that trouble?”
“Why would you take Inderal? Why would you practice fire against a couple of Mexican illegals? Like I said, there’s so much I just don’t understand about your
“I didn’t try to kill him.” Cold. Soft.
“That’s exactly why you shot two Mexicans…”
The door shutting behind the FBI agent sounded like a gunshot, perhaps it should have been.
December 22, 2000
Susan White was still shocked. Danilo Metucchi. He’d been Duke for a week now and from what her “friends” in
Susan turned away from the skyline, turned away from
The actors and actresses were getting it the worst. Danilo’s people had cut to the source with them, snaring up black mail schemes that had been sitting about for who knows how many years now, and usurping their management and rights to decide. Films would now be handed down to whichever actor or actress some Old World Siren felt was best for the part. The films that were seen as too risqué, to violent, or in poor taste simply wouldn’t be made. Enforced civility: Danilo Metucchi was slapping
Susan didn’t like it. Her jaw set and her gaze levelled off onto the jewelled
FBI Centre,
“I told you on the phone that we’ve got something.” Smitty’s voice edged with irritation, if only Bach would just hear him out.
“And I told you it’d better be damn good, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“I’m a Jew, Hanukah’s over.”
“You’re stalling.”
“Alright, well, me and Denny were crawling through this guy’s computer, and you know how when you,” Bach leaned against a counter top, his arms crossed and the flickering, florescent lights gave his un-amused glower a forbidding nature. “…erase something on your computer it’s never really gone until you format the hard drive. Well, this guy McManneth, he hadn’t wiped his hard drive in a while, on a count of he was still using his computer right. So, Denny brought the thing down to the lab and had them do some digging and the came up with a deleted AIM program. And a screen name, Gabriel.”
“Alright, you’ve got my attention.” And he did, Bach’s posture improved as he leaned forward, his hands spread out against the table that Tim was sitting at.
“Well, after Denny got that information I went to down to a friend in the ECOM centre and he got in contact with AOL, he got a whole stash on information on this McManneth guy, confirmed home address, favourite places, and, an email address.”
“Smith…?”
“Wait, there’s more. Denny’s people in the lab dug up a name from the Buddy List. Tempest. So I took that to Franco in ECOM and he got me all the info on that screen name. Get this, it belongs to a guy named George Pruent.”
“That’s about the best damn Christmas present I’ve gotten in years.”
“What does your wife normally get you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Samuel Bank’s Apartment
Another Christmas without snow, but be damned if Sammy didn’t have the blues. His apartment, tiny and warm, felt like it was choking him. The TV was turned off. Every channel was playing the same thing over and over again, and it was all more than Sammy could handle right now. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was too early for too early to start drinking.
“Damn it. What am I going to do with myself?” Sammy had been asking himself that question for the better part of every waking hour since he’d been back. Emptiness had been dominating the part of Sammy’s life not taken up by alcohol. “What now?” The question kept floating through Sammy’s mind, he’d contemplated getting another job, maybe moving to
* * *
Thump!
Sammy jolted forward spraying cards all over the floor in front of him. The second time the thump sounded it didn’t seem as loud, and it did seem to have a source. Achy from sleeping in a poor position, the pepper-haired fellow crossed the small apartment to the door, still shaking from the third knock. Peaking through the peep-hole didn’t show anything.
“Damn kids…” Sammy grumbled as he pulled back on the chain and opened the door. The words “don’t they know it’s Christmas?” were cut off as he looked down.
“Merry Christmas Sammy, I brought eggnog, you’ve got rum I presume?”
“How in the world do you knock that hard from a wheelchair?” Sammy couldn’t hold back a smile as he opened the door and let his crippled companion in.
“Practice.”
“I can’t believe you’ve come for Christmas, jeez, I don’t have a thing to eat. I do have rum, the ol’ Cap’n, but call next time you plan to drop by and surprise me.” Old Sammy got a glare from the golem: issued in compliment to absurdity. Christmas music was quickly filled the room and the two of them were sitting in the living room, a recliner for each, rummed up eggnog in hand.
“So, is Christmas a Golem holiday too?”
“Are you kidding Halmark wouldn’t overlook a group as large of the Golem’s. Those guy, they are the ultimate capitalists.”
“Wha?”
“No, we don’t. You missed that sarcasm. You should probably put some more rum in there then. No, actually, 97.1, that WASH FM station, has been playing nothing but Christmas music for days on end now. I couldn’t take it anymore. So I decided that the two of us could probably use the company.”
“Good call.”
“Thank you.”
“I thought all you humans’ kept Christmas goose in the freezer. I’d have brought one over if I’d known better.”
“Do you think I’ve got the slightest clue on how to cook a goose?”
“You’ve had yours cooked quite a few times since we’ve known each other.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And you don’t have any goose in the house.”
“No, but I think Dominoes is open.”
“Goose and pizza, must be a human-only connection.”
“I’m going to hide your damn wheel chair.” They were both smiling. It was the biggest smile that Sammy had smiled in a very long time.
Christmas was two days gone and that meant Warren Bach’s team was back at work. They’d been busy and
At the moment, his mind was concentrating on just how confining his bulletproof vest really is; how cramped the back of the van was. They were about a block away from the address they’d gleaned; an apartment in a lower-class section of
George Pruent. This guy was a ghost if
“Check your night vision. We’re going in with the building blacked out for roughly twenty seconds. Resistance isn’t expected but we’re still using a four-man assault and entry team. The apartment’s not large and our electronic reconnaissance team says our man is sleeping right now.”
“The let’s-,”
“Ben?” Washkowiak’s traditional line was cut short by Bach’s intrusion. “Keep your cool. Remember, you’re an analyst. We’ve got an A&E team.”
“You just keep rubbing that in my face.”
The blackout hit the building while both teams were stacking outside the door marked 2E. The shape charges, though physically small, rocked the door inward with a tremendous thud. With rapid, lethal precision the team entered into the apartment.
Through the monocle of his PVS-14, Warren Bach’s world was green, black, and grainy. It always surprised him how loud his own breath was in his ears. Ahead of him, though that black little “NOD,” Bach’s attention was fixed on the “other” team. They moved fluidly, quickly, and cleared each room up to the bedroom door. They paused there. Their MP-5s were stock-welded almost to the centre of their chests; their infrared aiming lasers – invisible to the naked eye – cut brilliantly through the green NOD world.
The lead man mumbled into his throat microphone.
“Take it.”
“Lights!”
“Federal agents.”
NODs were flipped up and barrel mounted flashlights clicked on. Gloved agents hit switches and lights throughout the apartment flickered to life.
“David Hess, also known as George Pruent, you’re under arrest for conspiracy, assassination, and attempted assassination. ‘Cuff him and read him his rights.”
* * *
“So, you’re telling me that the credit card number was stolen?” Bach, furious, leaned over Mr. Hess. Hess looked like Hell. He’d put up with hours of intense interrogation already, not to mention being scared out of his wits, arrested at gun point, his apartment turned into a crime scene, and the entire building waking up to see him off. Plus, there was no way he was going to ever get his security deposit back after they blew the door in. Bach stormed out of the interrogation room. Behind him, pale and pasty beneath the florescent lights and clad only in a wife beater and soiled boxers, Hess gave up and put his head in handcuffed hands.
“Shaw!”
“It’s not him is it?” Shaw came over to the coffee machine as Bach poured himself a cup. Johnny wasn’t as tall as the senior member, but he had a great deal of muscle mass on him, all those years of rugby and roughhousing paid off for him.
“No. Hess is just a punk Internet credit card thief. See what you can find on that and put him away for as long as possible. Guys like him are fucking parasites.”
“Sir,” John Shaw, man of action, hesitated. “We’ll find George Pruent.”
Bach was silent for a moment, his chocolate eyes lost in black coffee. “I told you. Go book Hess on credit card charges.”
Outside of
The wood panelling of the room was exquisite, dating back nearly two hundred years and preserved through several rich owners and hundreds of hard working people whom they relied upon to remain so immaculate. Danilo Metucchi was enjoying a scant moment to himself. Since becoming Duke he could count his waking private hours on one hand.
His plan was sound; perfect. He would ensure the safety of his people even if it meant protecting them from themselves. Their indulgences and greed, while probably warranted, were often a risk, and the New Worlders were prone to taking risks that this Siren saw as destructive. Granted, some risks were good. It was almost the same argument as indulgence versus sin. Some were mere trifles: a fine wine, a good cigar, an original Monet. Others were sins, and put the Siren race in its entirety at a risk. Mankind would have a field day with Sirenkind if they ever found them out.
The ringing of the telephone disturbed the night air. Danilo dragged his eyes, with all of their snake like charm, away from the deep red of his Barola ’95 and settled them onto the phone as it rang the third time.
“Allo?”
“It’s Marques. A meeting is to be arranged.”
“When?”
“Soon. The Guild wishes to speak with you over a few minor concerns.”
“Cannot it be done over the phone?”
“That is not how things are done.”
Danilo paused. “Thursday then.”
“Done.”
“Goodnight, Mathew.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
Danilo forced the entire event from his mind with a swirl of wine.
The rich in
Unlike most Siren parties, where only the weak, inexperienced, and the humane clutched razors of self-mutilating nervousness, this party seemed predominated by it. Nervous fear floated through the party on the smoke of expensive cigarettes and cigars. It wafted amidst the perfumes and body sprays. It sat in the cocaine urn and tickled the edges of the laughter that barely betrayed its existence. It was the bubbles in their champagne, but like good little manipulators, no one saw them sweat.
“Two thousand and one. A new millennium.” Beth Meyers, the blond haired, blue eyed,
“Didn’t we say that last year?”
“Yes we did. But that was the de facto belief. This one comes straight from Danilo Metucchi.” Everyone got a chuckle from Jules’ comment, but they laughed a little too easily. They laughed like colonials.
“How is the West Coast under his rule?” Susan asked in the most idly casual manner. The comment came disguised as a stiletto amidst roses, and few even questioned its earnestness. Susan was the master of these games.
“It,” the brunette Siren actress, barely twenty-one and far too young to claim any experience in the matter, paused. And then she showed her cards to everyone. “It’s changed a lot. I’ve been pushed into an ironbound slave contract. Every job I do is chosen for me. Rumour has it that since the E.C. plan can’t get to the writers, actors and actresses will just be “steered” away from unacceptable films.”
“I guess that twenty million a picture you’d been getting for just looking young, dumb, and sexy had better last you. You’re going to be out of work.”
“Fuck you Beth. Like you’ve got room to talk. Your series was just cancelled if I’m not mistaken.” Fuming, the brunette stood up and left the small Siren circle.
“I’d forgotten about the intelligent conversation that abounds on the other coast.” Susan and other members of the “City” crowd found this more than slightly amusing. But there was more that Susan needed to know. “Speaking of the other coast, where is that Corbin, Brian Corbin? I know I had him put on the invite list.” Susan knew, or she had heard, but she wanted a correlation. She played dumb in high hopes, and with a master’s finesse.
“He hasn’t been seen in quite sometime. Last anyone heard he was secluding himself.”
“Why on Earth would he do that?”
The conversation died for a moment. No one wanted to be the mouth of gossip. Susan’s dark brown eyes passed from Siren to Siren as she questioned all those in her court. She demanded loyalty. They were answered when they fell on the crystal blues of Beth Meyers.
“There’s a tape circulating where he denies being Joanna: the Joanna who got us into this whole mess. And, well, denial is as much proof of guilt as admittance.”
“That’s horrible.” Susan only passably seemed shocked.
FBI Centre
“It’s about time that we got a break in this case.”
“Whataya got there battle?” Rudisill leaned over Price’s shoulder and squinted to see what he had in his hands.
“George Pruent, the man who wasn’t there, right?” Jim Rudisill just nodded. “I traced his credit card from the hotel in Austin and I just this morning got through to his bank. They really close for the holidays there.” Price seemed to linger on that thought. He’d been in
“Did ya get another address?” Jim turned away from Chris and towards the coffee pot. “Smitty make this?”
Chris looked at the pot. “Yeah, Tim brewed that not too long ago actually. I didn’t get another address, they had the same one listed. But I did get another bank account. George Pruent sent someone three thousand dollars on the twelfth.”
“Who?”
“A guy named Samuel Banks.”
“You got an address?” Price nodded. “I’ll call
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