Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(65)

“Second Eden,” Angel said. “They should have read what happened to the first.”





Chapter 53

Message from a Dead Man




I woke up in the dark.

There was a sound, not music, this time, but something small, familiar. I struggled for a moment, trying to recall it from the fog of sleep.

Phone.

My phone had buzzed.

Two days ago, I’d e-mailed Preston McAvoy. It was one thing, finding his Registry account still active. But I’d put that down to corporate inefficiency; like most big companies, the Registry could get a little ragged round the edges.

What I’d not expected was an answer.

I looked at the address. And sat up, fast.

[email protected]

It could have been an error message. Or an out-of-office. Or— I opened it as carefully as if it were a letter bomb.

The first line said, You roused it up No punctuation. No “Hi Chris.”

Then two blank lines, and:

but you didn’t put it down again I sat there for a moment, going through the options in my head.

Then I wrote, Let’s meet.

A pause.

You’re not control, he wrote.

Not control? Not in control? What did he mean?

I wrote back, I’m Registry.

A longer pause this time. Much longer.

Angel rolled over in bed beside me, murmured something that I didn’t catch.

Then: I have enemies.

I sent, I can keep you safe.

I checked my inbox, wondering if I’d missed something, a prior message, some context for it all. But there was nothing there.

I waited.

I typed, Trust me. I’m your friend.

“I’m your friend, you little bastard. I’m your fucking friend . . .”

Angel said, “What’s up?”

“You OK?” I said.

“Pretty much.”

“Hearing things?”

“I don’t hear them. I just kind of know them. It comes and goes. Why?”

“Fancy a drink?” I said.



Years ago, when I was starting in the job, I’d known an op named Martin Klein. Klein was talented but flashy, keen to make a name for himself. “Plan drunk, work sober,” he’d advised. His moves were bold, unorthodox, and got him noticed—at least, till he forgot the “sober” portion of the formula. After that, he’d been an accident waiting to happen. Nobody would work with him. Still, it was a maxim I’ve resorted to from time to time—or at least, a good excuse.

I felt my body shifting gear. The noise and flashing lights soon pulled me into full alert. My phone might tell me it was 3:00 a.m., but down here on the gaming floor, it was a normal day, the slot machines and blackjack tables still in full swing. It was like time travel, some endless loop where I kept jumping back, and back, and back, and never seemed to catch up on my sleep.

We bought coffees. We bought scotch.

My phone was buzzing, time and again.

They told me you were here

They told me that you visited They told me that you saw “He’s still using his old account?”

“Looks like it.”

“Chris, there’s something wrong with this.”

I wrote, We need to meet.

“He’s checking his account, or he wouldn’t know you’d contacted him. He’s still using it.”

I sipped coffee, then scotch. “I thought they’d just forgotten to delete it. But if it’s active, chances are it’s never been flagged up.”

“He’s meant to be dead, Chris.”

“I know where you’re going on this. You think he’s still in touch with someone, don’t you? Someone at the Registry who knows he’s alive. And here.”

“What’s ‘control’?”

“I don’t want to ask. He probably thinks I know.”

“And why the hell are we here? Why are we trying to track him down? Unless—”

“Unless the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing.”

I had been caught up in the Registry’s machinations before. What I’d learned was to do my job and try to ignore everything else. But sometimes, that just wasn’t possible.

I flipped open the laptop. I’d read through McAvoy’s file, but I went back now, hoping for—I don’t know. Some insight, something I’d missed before.

He’d been in Indiana, GH9. The psych reports were pretty much par for the course, that way; GH9 had been the perfect place to lose your sanity. They’d worked people alternate shifts, one week on, one week off, trying to “normalize” the situation. With that, and a heap of tranks and antipsychotics, they’d kept the whole place functioning until a stray god blew it all to kingdom come, a detail which had failed to feature in official versions of the story. What was interesting here was McAvoy’s own correspondence. He’d come back from his week off, full of accusations; his colleagues were inept, crooked and fraudulent. Some of it was as ridiculous as quibbling over who’d used his shelf in the fridge; some of it, accusations of falsifying figures, lying and theft—smart, since that was just what he was up to himself. None of it had ever been investigated, and having visited the place, I wasn’t too surprised. But I thought I’d got a picture of the man now: scheming and self-righteous, seriously paranoid.