Radicals, page 4
The man spit blood in the dirt. “Yeah. I know. That’s why I asked you to help.”
“You needed my help because I’m the best programmer you know and you wouldn’t be able to pull off something like this without me.” He nodded to the fat man. “Help him up. We need to ghost.”
“Wait a sec,” the fat man said as he pulled up his injured partner. “I think we should make another stop. I saw something on the way in.”
“We stick to the mission,” the short man said. “You know how Teniente is.”
“Yeah,” the fat man said. “But I think she’ll really like this.”
8
Jay had spent the last hour with his earbuds in, foot tapping rapidly, listening to a Canadian thrash-punk band called Left for Dead on YouTube because he’d been up so late last night re-alphabetizing his record collection from I to L that he’d forgotten to rip the record onto his phone. A brass locust statue stared at Jay from atop three piles of neatly stacked tech spec and IP flow printouts. He’d been sifting through various chat rooms and message forums, looking for anything related to The Crimson Ghost or Cyclotrode X. Mostly what he found was stupid hardcore kids selling old records for exorbitant amounts of money to other kids just like them.
What kind of asshole would pay a thousand dollars for a record? Jay thought. You take that Walk Among Us record to any normal person? They’d give you ten bucks for it or tell you they already had it on iTunes.
Jay had even dipped into the dark web—or at least the small section he could access by establishing a proxy IP address and posing as some miscreant. It was unfortunate, tragic even, that smugglers and pederasts and drug dealers had free range of the dark and deep webs via peer-to-peer networks, while he remained penned into hell’s half-acre by a picket fence constructed of legal precedent. Even that small bit had to fall within certain parameters while the Bureau collected evidence, lest the P2P networks catch wind of it and get the whole case thrown out on grounds of entrapment. Sometimes it was enough to make Jay wonder why they even tried when the odds were stacked so high against them, but that’s what they did: try.
Though the dark web was verboten for work, he’d spent a lot of time trolling it in his search for Sam. At first, he used the Bureau’s resources, starting with running credit cards, which was a long shot, given she was severely against banks and credit card companies and preferred to use cash, or better yet, barter to pay for things. Then he’d searched through used-car shops and activist groups in areas where she had friends, using facial recognition to scan photos posted on social media from shows her friends’ bands played. Every time he traveled for work, he’d be vigilant in train stations, airport bars, slowing his car when passing bus stations to look for a tall, thin woman with bright neck tattoos.
When none of that panned out, he turned to the dark web. Scouring leftist chat rooms for any avatars that resembled The Savages, the punk band Sam sang in, or Kat Savage, her stage name. Sifting through anarcho-syndicalist and Marxist message boards for any mention of Plants Not Profits, Baltimore, anything that might lead him to her. He didn’t need to prove any of this in a courtroom; he just needed to find her. But even after surfacing from the depths of the dark web, he’d always return empty-handed.
The frustration of not being able to find one goddamned lead coupled with the lack of completion in alphabetizing scratched at the inside of his head but he did his best to ignore it. Something about alphabetizing, sorting, organizing, keeping things ordered, it all helped to sedate the low-flying panic attack he constantly felt inside his head.
He tried to explain it to Sam once, when they were living with their grandmother after their mom died. Jay didn’t know then that before he was thirty, he would lose his mother, father, and sister. All were for different reasons, and all of them hurt, but where his mother and father had faded with time, Sam’s absence became more pronounced every year. Their grandmother hadn’t been that nice a woman to start—subtly judgmental, prone to backhanded compliments, convinced Jay’s father was stealing from her—and she only got worse after her daughter’s death, like she thought the suicide reflected poorly on her, showed some deficiency in her own parenting.
It didn’t help that their father very well could’ve been stealing from their grandmother. They’d cut off contact with him after he showed up to the funeral blackout drunk and tried to fight the funeral director for using too many flowers, screaming at the poor woman that she was trying to rip him off. Years later, after he’d dried out, he tried to get back in touch with them, but both Jay and Sam agreed they wanted nothing to do with him. At the time, it seemed very logical. He was toxic; they didn’t need him around. But then Sam walked out and cut off contact with Jay, and he began to wonder if she was trying to tell him something. Sam was the one person in whom he’d confided, and her leaving—knowing everything that Jay was dealing with—stung in a way he couldn’t articulate.
Jay had wanted to give her a peek at the buzzing and whirling that constantly happened inside his skull, to help her understand why he was the way he was. They were walking to a punk show one night and he pointed at the sidewalk and said, “You don’t step on the cracks, because step on the crack and break your mother’s back, right?”
She shrugged. “Sure, kid.”
Then he said to imagine that lines came from the corners and quartered the square, like cutting a sandwich into small triangles, and he couldn’t step on those either.
“Blow that up, Sam, and when you’re riding in the car and pass a telephone pole, you have to blink. Say it’s your right eye. So at the next pole, you have to blink your left eye. The next pole, left eye again, next pole right eye, because that’s four times and it completes the pattern.
“But that’s only one pattern; you have to do it again, but go left, right, right, left, but that’s only two sets, and it has to be four for it to be correct, and to follow the larger pattern, you have to do left, right, right, left, then right, left, left, right. Once that’s all done, you have to close your eyes and try to calm your breathing because you can actually feel your heart thumping inside your chest at the thought of blinking one more time because that pattern of four sets of four blinks is bulging at the seams and ready to spill out into an even larger pattern that will definitely, without a doubt, consume you whole.
“But then it’s not just poles, it’s holding out your pinkie and looking past it so that there are two ghost versions—a right-eye version and a left-eye one—and you have to line it up with a sidewalk curb or the straight edge of a counter, then blink right, left, left, right, et cetera, and somewhere after the migraine from constant blinking sets in, you realize there are just too many straight lines in the world.
“Now imagine all that going on inside your head,” he told her, “but you can’t tell anyone about it because they’ll look at you like you’re insane, and you’ve already got a mother who killed herself so you don’t need more to make you stand out like a freak.”
“Mom didn’t kill herself,” Sam said for what felt like the thousandth time in the past few weeks. She’d always been convinced that someone had killed their mother—because of the big bruise on her temple—and it was covered up as a suicide.
“I’m not arguing about this anymore, Sam,” Jay said. “Cops said she did. Evidence says she did.”
“You always believe the cops?”
Jay didn’t bother responding. He hadn’t examined the scene or anything and had never sought out the autopsy photos—because who would?—but he trusted those who had. Their mother had been acting increasingly erratic in the years leading up to her suicide. At the time, Jay had been too young to understand it, but looking back, he could see why she’d slowly unraveled. Supporting two small kids virtually by herself. A husband who wasn’t around much, and was generally drunk when he was there. None of it excused what she did, but he’d spent years trying to figure her out, to pinpoint the exact moment she felt it was easier to die than take care of her children and all it had got him was anxiety attacks and hangovers. He struggled with it for a few years until he eventually realized he’d never really know why she did it, and instead shifted to trying to make peace with it, even if Sam couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. They continued down the sidewalk for several quiet moments.
Sam glanced up at him as they walked, maybe working something out in her head. Finally, she said, “Look, kid, you are a freak.” She shrugged and wrapped her arm around him. “But normal’s pretty boring anyway.”
Jay felt a slow tearing sensation creeping up his throat at the tender thought of Sam and bit down on the edge of his tongue to stanch it when his music suddenly went dead. Immediately, he focused on his laptop, afraid that somehow, someone had bypassed his secure connection and started shutting down his machine. Then he heard the song coming from the small computer speakers and saw ASAC Dalworth, plug-end of the cord dangling from his hand. A woman stood beside him. Nearly as tall as Dalworth. Light-brown skin, dark hair with streaks of blonde scattered through it.
“At least pretend you care about the rest of us,” Dalworth said.
Jay snapped out of it.
“I figured you for Hootie and the Blowfish,” she said, “not Blow-up-a-Church.”
Jay raised his eyebrows. “Why do you think I was wearing headphones?”
Dalworth motioned toward her. “Jay Brodsky, this is Special Agent Paloma Vargas, from the Pittsburgh office. Agent Vargas, Agent Brodsky.”
“Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand. Her skin was soft but Jay nearly winced at her grip.
“Sorry to hear that, Agent Vargas,” he said.
“Pardon me?” She cocked her head.
Jay shrugged. “You know. Pittsburgh.”
“Ah.” Agent Vargas nodded. “Says the man who lives in Baltimore.”
Jay paused a second, then said, “Touché.”
Dalworth cleared his throat. “Agent Vargas was on the Roshetnikov Brothers casino case.”
Jay arched his eyebrows. “Impressive.”
“Agent Vargas is from Domestic Terrorism. She’ll be assisting us on this case.”
“Great,” Jay said.
Dalworth turned to Vargas. “Agent Brodsky has been leading the team in scouring the field as to the identity of the group but hasn’t unearthed anything yet.”
Jay held his hands up. “We know plenty about them. We’re just looking for the clue that pulls it all together.”
Dalworth gave a tight smile and handed Jay another folder. “Maybe this will help.”
Jay flew through the pages, talking to himself as he read the details of the Patrick & Sons hack.
Once he finished, he closed the folder and looked up. “It’s the same goddamned thing. The ghosts, the locust, the billing records.” Jay tossed it on his desk and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling on it until he felt pressure at the roots. Blinked his right eye, his left, his left, his right.
“Except they haven’t found a way into the Bay State or Tidewater systems proper.” Dalworth cleared his throat. “Yet.”
Jay’s head drooped. “When did this happen?”
“I heard something today from a source. The CEOs have ordered an internal investigation to avoid investor panic, but my source sounded pretty worried.”
Agent Vargas laughed to herself. “Imagine what we could do if we were allowed to do our job.”
“As of now, this new hack has already infiltrated seven other locations. Two other insurance brokers and five community clinics.”
“Any connection to Bay State or Tidewater?”
“No. This one’s Exemplar, but they’re the largest in the country, so that’s not terribly surprising.”
“I know you’re going for encouraging but…,” Jay said.
Dalworth continued. “Only other difference is a responding officer was assaulted during this break-in—he’s fine, just happened to be passing by during the incident—and this one didn’t seem random, like Community Health did. Remember the mine explosion in West Virginia, what, two years ago? This Patrick guy backed most of them and inserted—how would you say it?—convenient language that allowed his provider to deny everyone’s claims.”
“Even though it was the mine’s fault.”
Dalworth nodded. “Not saying that’s why they hit this place, but it’s something to keep in mind.”
Jay leaned back in his chair, thinking a moment. “This is a big step. They’ve crossed state lines.”
“Crossing state lines does help our case.”
“No,” Jay said. “I mean that they’re showing us what they can do.”
“If they can do it in one state, they can do it in any state,” Vargas said.
Jay nodded. “Every state.”
“Well, that’s why Agent Vargas is here. And Pentress, West Virginia, is four hours away so I’d suggest you get moving.”
“Who’s going to swear for the warrants?”
Dalworth looked around. “Where’s your life partner?”
Jay shrugged.
Dalworth scratched his chin. “Give him a call, see if he can. If not, I will.” Jay cocked his head, slightly taken aback by his ASAC’s involvement. “The healthcare industry accounts for about twenty percent of the nation’s economy. So you can imagine we have a lot of eyes on us right now. You two need to get out there, and we don’t have time to sit and play pocket pool while these jokers are running around out there.”
“Thanks for the help,” Jay said.
Dalworth nodded to Vargas. “Agent Vargas, thank you for coming, and I appreciate ASAC Hart loaning you out. Let me know if I can do anything else for you.”
She shook his hand. Then he turned on his heels and left.
It didn’t surprise Jay to see another agent, and if he had to have a ride-along, he could do worse. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to Yemin yammer on for hours about building a bed for his kids. Jay made a mental note to watch that X-wing video when he got back.
“Agent Vargas,” Jay said, “you ready to see God’s country?”
9
It took Jay a few calls to track down Yemin, who answered with, “What favor do you need now and how soon will you help me build this if I do it?” It had cost Jay a weekend in the near future, but by the time they passed Hagerstown, Jay had the warrants in motion and had brought Vargas up to speed.
“What do you think this is about?” Vargas dug through her purse, unearthing a pack of tissues, cell phone, a rolled-up reusable bag, and a compact umbrella into her lap before finally pulling out a granola bar. She dumped the contents back in, opened the bar, and dropped the wrapper on the floor.
Jay glanced down at the wrapper, his lips twitching. “Didn’t we just spend twenty minutes talking about this?”
“I understand what is happening with the case. What I’m saying is, what do they want? Why are they doing it?”
“Does it matter?” Jay took the ramp where I-70 split off to I-68, heading west.
“You don’t want to know what makes them work? You don’t think that helps you track them?”
“I’m not as concerned in why as in what and when.” Jay glanced at the wrapper again. They had known each other three hours. Over the years, Jay had learned to keep a stoic face and contain his tics. Unless he was incredibly tired or stressed, most people didn’t notice the arranging, the patterns, the oddness. Sam’s presence had been the bulwark against whatever black shadows lapped inside his skull, and it got worse every year around this time, but this time it felt especially difficult. It’d be nice to have a fresh start with someone, especially someone like Vargas. Still, there were lines and then there were lines. “There’s a plastic bag behind your seat I use for trash.”
“Okay.” She bit into the bar, crumbs sticking to her lips. Jay looked at her. “Right,” she said, and stuck the wrapper in the bag.
“Sorry, it’s just, you know…,” Jay trailed off. He didn’t want to be a pain in the ass so soon after meeting her, but knew he’d see nothing but the wrapper for the remainder of the drive if it weren’t put away. He held his pinkie out, lined it up with the white line on the side of the road, blinked right, left, left, right. In the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him. Finally, she got back to the point.
“What I’m saying is, we’re looking for something that unites these hacks, correct? Are these socially motivated? Is that why they hit this asshole who denied everyone’s claims? Or is that incidental and they targeted him because he’s a predatory agent with a lot of clients and he’s a soft touch and they’re actually trying to throw the economy into chaos?”
“Isn’t that splitting hairs? They still wiped everything out. Every day they go free increases the chance that they can hit other states and turn this into a national crisis. Or shit, even a global one. You saw what happened during the Lehman Brothers crash. Everyone got hurt. A lot of people still haven’t recovered.”
“That’s ominous.”
“Ominous, sure, but also possible.”
“No,” Vargas said, pointing out her window. “That. Beginning of Hurricane Donovan?”
Jay glanced out the passenger side and saw a thick mass of black clouds strafing between mountain peaks, stretching across the highway.
“Hurricane isn’t supposed to make landfall for a few more days. I’m hoping it skips north of us,” Jay said. “There’s a saying in Maryland that if you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes and it’ll change. It was never this bad when I was a kid, though. Unpredictable patterns. More violence and destruction. Tearing things down and uprooting what used to be planted. It’s getting really dangerous.”
“We’re still talking about weather, right?”
