Authors: Nathan Goodman
11
The office of Dr. Thomas Inman had become a familiar place for Cal in recent months. The name Inman was well known throughout Atlanta and smelled of old southern money. Inman Park was the most well-known representation of the name, but the family had become very wealthy decades earlier through various business interests and was known for generosity. The more prominent universities in the area were prime benefactors of family money, including Cal’s alma mater, Georgia Tech. Without Inman money, the school may have never been founded.
Tom Inman, MD, carried nothing in his walk of the pretense of old family money. He grew up in a wealthy family to be sure, but his father, having seen disastrous results of raising children in that type of environment, resolved things would be different. They moved into a nice, upper-middle-class neighborhood and more or less hid their wealth. No, they wanted their kids to be shielded from all of that.
Tom went to public school, and earned his way into Stanford University the hard way. Since he was footing his own bill, and in order to afford the exorbitant costs of medical school, he decided to let Uncle Sam pay the tuition for him. Tom signed a commission in the US Navy, promising to serve five years after med school. So, like Cal, Tom had served onboard a ship. And unknown to either of them at the time, they had served onboard that same ship in the Persian Gulf. They never met during that six-month deployment because, frankly, Cal was never sick. Not until now anyway.
Cal walked into the waiting room, glanced at the receptionist, and had a seat. He didn’t bother giving his name; she knew it. A short while later he was ushered down the hall and into Tom’s personal office. Today wasn’t a day for an exam—the exams were through. Today was the day Cal would learn what he feared would be his final diagnosis. The cancer was probably everywhere by now, and there was nothing Tom or anyone else was going to be able to do about it. Up until now, Cal hadn’t wanted to tell Cade. There was no sense in worrying him. But now, it looked like he’d have to break his silence.
“Hello, Cal,” came Tom’s familiar voice.
After discovering their overlapping tour of duty, and having spent so much time together, the two had become fast friends.
“Hey, Tom.”
“That’s Dr. Inman to you, scumbag,” Tom joked.
“Tom, I know we’ve got serious business to discuss.”
Tom had hoped to get in some small talk first. He hated this part. During his residency he had trained himself to emotionally detach from his patients. As an oncologist, he’d had to tell his share of patients the bad news. But it was different with them. Cal was a friend, he was dying, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
12
Cade walked to the elevator and hit the button. “What the hell was that all about?” he said aloud. His breathing was irregular and his palms sweaty. The elevator door opened, and he stepped in, standing there for a moment, staring at the buttons.
Something is very, very wrong up here,
his eyes fixed on the button numbered sixteen. The doors closed, but he just stood, motionless. Finally, he raised his hand but stopped it just shy of pressing the button. His hand was shaking. He had to get outside for a bit and go cool off.
Working at Thoughtstorm isn’t supposed to be this stressful
. He hit the button for the lobby and, instead of heading to the cafeteria where he might normally grab a coffee, he went straight out the front doors and onto Peachtree Street.
Outside, the spring breeze hit him. Peachtree Street was busy at lunch time. Hell, it was busy most of the time. He shook his head, still baffled over what he’d just experienced.
What was going on up there? Why had there been so much pressure over that e-mail job? What was in that e-mail anyway?
He had to find out. Although, Cade wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. Whatever was going on, it was way more than the normal fire drill where some e-mail marketer was having a hissy fit about his e-mail not executing at the scheduled time.
Cade crossed Peachtree and walked a few blocks down Buckhead Avenue to Fado, a familiar Irish pub that had been on this corner for as long as he could remember. The pub food could be described as “not bad,” but the beer was cold and creamy. It was early yet, but Cade didn’t care. He needed to cool off and think things through. The lunch crowd was yet to arrive, and most booths were empty. He loved coming here after work to hang out with the guys from the office. It’s not that the wait staff knew him, but still, he’d been here enough for the place to hold a lot of memories.
He put his hands in his hair and leaned his elbows on the table, something his mother would have never approved. Cade’s mom had been a stable rock for most of his early life. Up until high school, he’d had an otherwise normal childhood. Things went bad that year with Mom. It was as if she had reached the end of her allotted stability and then just stopped caring. Trying to raise a child for all those years with an absentee husband had taken its toll. She blamed Cal for leaving her alone as he went on all those long deployments. It wasn’t easy being a Navy wife. Cal seemed to not recognize how much pain his absences were causing. After a while, it was like she just zoned out. The day after Cade went away to school, she moved out of the house and left Cade’s dad. The divorce was filed, and Cal was left in a pool of misery, not that he didn’t see it coming or deserve it.
Cal’s long absences took their toll on Cade as well. When he was younger, Cade saw how sad his mom was, and it made him angry. Those same feelings continued into adulthood and would flare when the stress level was high. Cade took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled in one long, slow motion. The wait staff, busy filling ketchup bottles and salt shakers, hadn’t noticed him entering.
He was really confused from the morning’s events. One thing was certain, he had to know what was going on. He had to find out who those guys were. Then something occurred to him—he now had the security access. If he snooped around the network from his laptop, he may be able to hide his tracks. As an administrator, he could even hide his activities from the log files. He would log in and look at the e-mail content of the job that had caused such uproar. Maybe there was something he missed. The thought scared him a little bit. He’d always had access to see whatever was heading out across the company servers, but that was always done in service to the customer, never in prying. There was a lot of data customers considered very private—most importantly, extensive customer e-mail lists: a virtual treasure trove of e-mail addresses. People paid a lot of money for lists like that. Cade never dared pry into a customer’s e-mails or data. He wondered if he’d have the guts to do it.
His iPhone buzzed and startled him back into reality. He fished out the phone and looked at the screen. It was his dad. He and his dad hadn’t spoken in many months. The anger buried deep within would probably poison their relationship for the rest of their lives. He let the phone ring a couple of times, just staring at it. Then, inexplicably, he decided to answer the call.
“Hello?” Cade knew who it was but didn’t want to admit it.
“Cade? It’s your dad.”
Silence hung in the air like a thick morning fog. Cade looked down and picked at the crack in the heavy wooden table.
“Cade, ah . . . listen, I’m sorry to bother you at work. I know I’m not someone you want to talk to. It’s just that, that . . . look, I want to talk. I need to talk to you. Can we do that?”
Cade hesitated. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Not now, not over the phone. Cade, I need to see you.”
Something in the way the voice trailed off made Cade realize whatever it was, it was important. The last time they talked, Cade ended up yelling at him for never being around when Mom needed him. The truth was Cade’s mom had an affair the summer of his tenth grade year. It wasn’t until Cade was older that he realized his mom was just a flesh and blood woman and was so very alone. His anger, once directed at his mother, had been redirected at his dad who put service to his country above service to his family, year after year after year. It was like she was getting back at Cal for all the hurt inside her. The affair was very short lived, but it festered and continued to cling to life inside Cade’s gut.
Finally, Cade said, “Is it that important to you?”
“Yes, son. Yes, it’s that important. How about I come over your way Friday after you’re off work?”
“I can’t do it on Friday,” said Cade. “I’m headed up to see Kyle’s graduation.”
“Kyle? You mean that friend of yours in college? Graduation? I thought he graduated a few years before you did?”
“He did, yeah, from undergrad. He’s graduating from Quantico this weekend,” said Cade.
“Quantico? You mean the FBI academy? Wow. He’s in the FBI? That’s great. Man, I bet his parents are so proud of him . . .” Cal stopped, realizing how that must have sounded. “I mean, Cade, listen, I didn’t mean that what he is doing is any more important than what you do. Look, I’m amazed at what you do. Hell, I don’t even understand it.”
But it was too late. Cade’s eyes rolled. His dad had always wanted him to apply to the Naval Academy or at least go through ROTC and then do something big, something important. But the interest was never there. Cade had seen enough “service” in his childhood to last a lifetime.
“I’m not back until late Sunday night. Call me next week.” Cade hung up the phone, shook his head, and raised a hand to flag down a waitress. He needed a beer. The four waitresses, however, appeared to be engrossed with topping off a tray full of salt shakers. The radio was on, and they were listening to a news report, which was out of Cade’s earshot.
“. . . appears that the final death toll in that tragic blast at the Morris K. Udall Little League Park in the Sabino Canyon area of Tucson is now listed at thirty-one. We’ve confirmed further that the original report of four dead and twenty-seven injured was accurate. The initial blast killed four, and many of the wounded were treated and released with minor injuries from shrapnel. Reports are coming in that many of the wounded, previously discharged from treatment, have died in their homes of causes unknown. A medical mystery unfolding now . . . wait, hold on, okay, I’m getting word now that we’re going live to a press conference at the Tucson Medical Center, where the largest number of victims was originally transported; the news conference is already in progress.”
“Let me introduce Dr. Charles Ramirez of the Tucson Medical Center as well as Special Agent in Charge Stephen Bolz of the FBI’s counterterrorism task force.”
Dr. Ramirez began, “Let me just say that in thirty-five years of practicing medicine, I’ve never seen anything like this. Our heartfelt sorrow is extended to each and every family member of the thirty-one lost souls.” The doctor’s voice shook as he cleared his throat. “Of the thirty-one people that were injured in the blast, seventeen were brought here, eleven of them children. Four were pronounced dead upon arrival.” The doctor spoke mechanically now, devoid of emotion. “One was admitted in critical condition. His condition was later upgraded to stable. Approximately two-and-one-half hours later, his condition deteriorated, and he went into cardiac arrest. We were unable to resuscitate him.” There was silence; the doctor was struggling to maintain his composure. “Our triage staff responded swiftly to all injuries. The rest of the injuries were non-life threatening. The remaining eleven victims were treated for minor lacerations and contusions. All were later released.” The silence began again, this one protracted. Through the radio, sounds of snapping camera lenses were audible. The doctor mustered enough courage to continue. “Then, beginning at approximately 1:15 p.m., emergency calls began pouring into the 911 service and into our hospital. Our service was once again flooded with patients. As they arrived by ambulance, all eleven of the originally discharged patients were declared dead upon arrival. At this time, the cause of death is unknown. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report, but in my estimation, there must have been some kind of toxin involved in that explosion.”
Reporters all spoke at once, clamoring to ask a question, but then Agent Bolz interrupted. “Let me assure you that all available resources are being employed by the FBI, other federal agencies, and with cooperation from the Tucson Sheriff’s Department. Forensic evidence is being gathered as we speak. We’ll let you know more as we find out.” He quickly left.
The radio newscast switched from the news conference in Phoenix, back to the WBS anchors in Atlanta. “Well, that’s what we know from the scene in Arizona. To recap, of the thirty-one known dead, seventeen were rushed to the Tucson Medical Center. Of those, eleven were treated and released, but later died of unknown causes. There was possibly a toxin of some type used in the explosive device. We’ll stay on top of this story and bring you the news as it happens. For now, in for Mike Slayden, I’m John Carden, reporting live. You’re listening to Newstalk 780, WBS.”
13
After eating what turned out to be a quiet lunch, Cade headed back out Fado’s heavy oak doors and onto the street. He felt more at ease now that he’d had a break. The cobalt blue sky was bright and clear as he walked down the hill towards the office. Behind him, a man also exited Fado, crossed to the opposite side of the street and walked in the same direction as Cade. A slight gust of wind flapped his un-tucked shirt tails. The man put his right hand to his ear. “Secure channel,” he said softly.
“Channel secure,” came a crisp reply into his earpiece.
“Subject en route.”
“Roger, subject en route. Distance?”
“Distance, three hundred meters.” The blowing breeze caused a slight rustling sound across the mic. “Be in view in zero-two minutes.”
“Roger that, zero-two minutes.”
Cade waited a moment for a MARTA bus to clear and then crossed Peachtree Road towards his office. Behind him shone the black mirrored glass of the sprawling Atlanta Financial Center building. In a vacant office on the sixth floor, a tripod-mounted camera with a high-powered lens recorded with intent.
Once inside the building, Cade rode up to the sixteenth floor and sat down in his cube. Whitmore stood up and walked around. If he ever wanted to talk to Cade, Whitmore walked all the way around the cube; standing up to talk over the cube wall was pointless, as his height created only a view of the top of Cade’s head that way.
“Where’d you go for lunch? I was going to see if you wanted to grab something at Fado.”
“Aw man, sorry,” said Cade. “That’s where I went. Sorry, I just needed to get out of here and take a breather.”
Whitmore didn’t hide his disappointment very well.
“Oh no, that’s cool. We’ll do it again soon.” He paused and said, “Hey, what was the big hubbub with them calling you upstairs? Everything cool?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, no big deal. Some guy who normally works up there was out today or something. They just had a server that needed a little medi-Cade,” Cade said, trying to cover up what had happened.
“Medi-Cade?”
“You caught that? See what I did there? My name is Cade . . .”
“Cade, dude, now that’s just gay,” joked Whitmore.
“Gay? You’re gay.”
“Yes, I’m gay. We all know I’m gay. But damn, I’m not that gay.”
Cade looked at him then laughed. For the first time that day he felt good.
Whitmore’s demeanor shifted. “Hey, can you believe it about those kids? Thirty-one people, man, unbelievable.”
Cade replied, “Wait, what? What thirty-one people? You mean the Tucson thing? They said there were four.”
“Dude, no. It’s unreal—every single one of the survivors are now dead. It’s like the bomb fragments were poisoned or something. No one knows.”
Cade flopped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Thirty-one? Holy crap.” Cade wanted to search the news on his browser but thought better of it, knowing the company logged website visits. Then, another thought crossed his mind. He remembered the incident when he placed masking tape over the lens of the laptop webcam, and it was gone the next day.
Did that have anything to do with those guys on seventeen?
Cade’s mind raced. Maybe he wasn’t being so paranoid after all. Maybe there was something to it. He glanced at the little lens of the webcam.
What if they’re watching me right now?
he wondered. The thought gave him the willies.
Down here, it seemed like a typical day. People in a conference room, others moving in that direction. Others on the phone, several banging away at their keyboards. But Cade didn’t feel comfortable anymore.
The desk phone rang again. “202 area code? Who the hell is calling me from New York?”
“No, nimrod. 202 is DC,” replied an amused Whitmore.
The phone rang again. “DC? Who do I know . . . holy crap!” Cade answered the call, “Cade Williams.”
“Hey, man!”
“Kyle! Hell yeah. I knew it must be you,” he said, glancing back at Whitmore who smirked at him. “Man, how’s it going?!” Cade said as he walked toward the break room.
“God, it’s almost over! I’m stoked, but damn I’m tired,” said Kyle.
Kyle MacKerron had taken Cade under his wing in college. Cade had been just a green freshman pledging the fraternity when Kyle was a senior. Cade always looked up to him like the big brother he never had.
Cade cut in with his trademark sarcasm, “So you’re telling me you’re about ready to graduate? Those suckers in the FBI want to give you a badge and a gun!” Cade knew the FBI had literally recruited Kyle. They were after him. Kyle’s subtle southern drawl was pure coastal Georgia, but bespoke nothing of what talents lay underneath. Kyle possessed everything the bureau was looking for—a graduate degree in forensic accounting, fluency in Farsi, a private pilot’s license, and letters of commendation for distinguished service in the Gulf War.
Kyle jabbed back, “Hey, when you get up here on Friday, I’ll let you hold it.”
“Hey, man, I don’t even want to speculate on what ‘it’ you’re talking about.”
“The gun, nimbleweed, the gun. If you promise not to shoot your toe off, I’ll let you hold the handgun. Just don’t tell anybody. I don’t want to get kicked out of here because of some pencil-neck.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Cade. “I’m taking Friday off and driving up. What happens when I get to the gate and some military dude asks me what the hell I’m doing on his base?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re officially on the invite list. They’ll have your name at the guard gate. But whatever you do, don’t forget your driver’s license. You’ll never get in here without that.”
“Hey, now don’t forget, you promised me you’d take me on the Jodie Foster tour. I expect to see anywhere they filmed
The Silence of the Lambs
,” said Cade.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got your lamb right here. Just have the Marine guard point you over to the dorms. I’m in the middle building, on the fourth floor. Room 463.”
Thursday came quickly, and once home, Cade realized how much crap he had yet to pack for the weekend. The plan was to leave early to avoid the traffic and to get a start on the ten-and-a-half-hour drive. Not that he minded it—the drive would give him some time to decompress and see a bit of the country he hadn’t seen. The last time he’d been in DC was in the seventh grade. All the school safety patrols from the county piled onto a train, with a mass of parent-chaperones in tow, and struck out to see the capital. That was four years before the 9/11 attacks. Now security was tighter.
I bet they don’t show up at the White House with a ton of kids and ask to see the President anymore
. He laughed. He was really looking forward to seeing Kyle.
Kyle had been like a guide his freshman year, steering him through all the boneheaded mistakes he was walking into. Cade thought back about going to Kyle’s home in Savannah that first year. They had some good times. Kyle, though, was a bit of a dichotomy. He could just about party anybody under the table, yet there was a serious side to him. Even being just a college kid, anywhere he was, Kyle always studied the situation. He had a sixth sense. He’d walk into a room, stop, turn around, and pull Cade out. It was like Kyle could smell trouble before it happened. His sense of smell for trouble didn’t cause him to avoid it himself though. If ever there was a drunken asshole at one of the frat parties, Kyle would position himself close enough to pound the guy if needed. And pound he did. Cade saw him tangle with a belligerent redneck at a sorority social one time. It was like watching a cat with fists made of bricks. His quickness was amazing. Kyle was everything Cade was not. That’s why one of them was in the FBI and the other was working a server room. The truth though was that Kyle was very proud of Cade. Cade had been just a scared little kid that first day of freshman year, and today he had made something of himself.