Chapter Eighteen - Uncovered
On the train, Jarod tried to hack into his own Internet program. Miss Parker had reset the password and he wanted to know what it was. He continued to type furiously as the man across from him buried himself deeper into his physics book.
At a motel in a small town outside Trenton, New Jersey, Jarod looked at a complete profile of Seth Meeker while fiddling with a chemistry set up, which was next to a mouse cage. It contained several white rodents of the Black Norwegian variety. He had managed to find the password – "pistachio", the one food he couldn't eat without adverse reaction – and had changed it after adding a new security measure to make sure no one would be able to have unauthorized access to his computer.
He took the contents out of a test tube, readied a syringe, and experimented on a mouse. It seemed as if nothing happened for a long while. Then it stiffened and fell to its side, as if dead.
While the mouse, labeled 'A', slept, Jarod checked the conditions of the current dosage. The effects of the drug he had concocted were similar to that of aconite, which would induce a coma-like state in large doses. The main difference was that he was looking for one that wore off in about fifteen minutes.
As he copied down Seth's address, the mouse woke up and scurried into a corner of the cage. Jarod smiled and poured a little of the drug into a soda and swallowed the drink.
In a quarter of an hour, Jarod, too, died, and thirty minutes after that, he woke up. He took out a pair of identical postcards and addressed them to his original capturers. He was able to affect Lyle's handwriting, having had access to several hard-copy documents written by the conniving man. Each of the cards said the same thing: "'Meet me at the Old Towne Pub at three o'clock tomorrow morning. I want to discuss your performing another service for me. I'm willing pay a hefty sum. Address: 107 W. Loockerman St.' – Lyle"
Into an envelope, he stuffed a check he had filled out, and he licked the flap.
Both Seth Meeker and Andrew Stuard arrived at the bar earlier than the postcard had instructed, enticed by the money 'Lyle' promised. They spotted each other across the bar and sat next to each other at the counter, where they began whispering furtively. "What d'ya think the guy'll ask us to do next?" Meeker hissed.
"Whatever it is, I am sure it will be quite entertaining," Stuard assured. The formal way he spoke sharply contrasted with his mercenary character. "And don't worry. He paid us very well last time."
"If ya say so," the less educated man said skeptically.
A man with smooth, dark hair and a mole under his right eye approached them, wiping a glass clean. "What'll you have?" Jarod asked.
To both of the men sitting on the stools, he looked oddly familiar. Stuard tried to place him while Meeker replied, "I'll be havin' a fucker."
"Excuse me?" the bartender asked.
Stuard explained. "He means a '1-900 Fuk-Meup'. I simply cannot imagine why he would want to drink that. The name they gave the beverage is simply dreadful, and you can tell that the drink bites." He paused. "I, on the other hand, would like to drink a gimlet. And make it half vodka, half lemon juice, nothing else, please."
Jarod drifted away to mix their drinks, and they two continued whispering. The shorter hand on the clock neared the twelve, and as they sipped the beverage the bartender gave them, it flowed past it. Stuard grew anxious. "You don't think we've been stood up, do you, friend?" he asked.
"I'd give 'im 'nuther ten minutes. He's been late before," the other replied as he finished quaffing his drink.
Stuard stirred his slowly, taking sips every so often. "You know, I can't tell where I've seen the bartender before. Does he look familiar to you?" he said, bringing up another matter on his mind.
"Mighta," Meeker said unhelpfully. "World's a pretty big place."
There was silence for a while, during which they waited impatiently. Finally the ten minutes passed. Stuard got up. "That's it. I do have a second job, and I can't afford to waste the day idling it away here."
"Okey," the less educated man responded as he got up as well. "He's prolly not showin' anyway." However, as he got up, he winced and held his hand to his abdomen. "Ow!" he cried out.
"Seth, are you all right?" Stuard said as he approached his friend.
"Ya think me bendin' over and yellin' in pain means I'm okay?" the other yelled angrily.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Stuard apologized, then added, "You know, that seems to be a question people ask out of courtesy more than out of common sense."
Not interested in the insightful comment, Meeker groaned as he said, "I think it was something in the drink."
Looking up, the well-trimmed acquaintance called to the dark-haired man. "Bartender! This man thinks that you've mixed something dirty in that drink you gave him."
Jarod seemed angry. "Why would I do something like that?" he asked.
"Well, I'm sure he was feeling fine before he got here," Stuard said. "It was only after that nasty beverage that he started feeling sick."
"Maybe the drink doesn't like 'im," the bartender muttered.
"Look, the least you could do is offer us a ride to a doctor."
"Nuh-uh," Meeker argued. "I don't trust them doctors." But he doubled up in pain once more.
"Fine," the dark-haired man said as he sighed. "Go out and wait by my car. It's the dark blue Chevy. I gotta close the bar."
"Thanks," Stuard said gratefully as Meeker groaned.
The bartender didn't share the same sentiments. "Whatever."
Jarod was soon outside, having relinquished the Old Towne Pub to the real bartender, and he let Stuard and Meeker into his car. This time, both of the men seemed doubled up. "Bartender," Stuard began as he groaned. "I think there was something wrong with my gimlet, too."
"This had to happen during rush hour," Jarod complained as he got into his car.
When they were well on their way, the ex-bartender asked, "So, how are you feeling? Nauseous? Unable to breathe? Do you have cramps?"
Stuard finally made the connection. "I know where I've seen you before! You were the man Mr. Lyle hired me to kidnap!"
"Yep," Jarod said with a mischievous grin.
"What are you doing here?" he asked incredulously, despite the pain he felt in his abdomen.
"I'm here to give you an antidote to the poison in your drinks," Jarod said as he dangled a vial just out of reach.
At the mention of an easy remedy to their pain, both Stuard and Meeker reached for the antidote, only to have Jarod pull it back. "Unh unh unh," he reprimanded. "The two pilots you killed on November 26th didn't have an antidote." His voice rose. "You were the cause of the deaths of 400 people, one of whom was my mother. Give me a good reason why either of you should live."
Almost immediately Seth and Meeker turned on each other:
"It was 'Drew's idea to go along with it – "
"Neither of us thought the pilots would die – "
"Seth said no one would get hurt – "
"At least they died in their sleep?"
"I had nothing to do with slippin' the drug into their drinks. That was 'Drew."
"That is entirely false. Seth had just as much part in it as I did. No. Wait. Make that he was more responsible for it than I was – "
"Enough!" Jarod yelled, causing the two to shut up. "I've decided." He held out the antidote to Meeker. "Should you get it?" He seemed to consider a moment, then retracted his offer. "Nope." Holding it out to Stuard, he asked, "Should you get it?" As Stuard grabbed for the vial, Jarod pulled it back again and made a tutting noise. "Nope." He tossed it out the window as both Stuard and Meeker moaned. "The truth is, I don't think neither of you deserved it, and I've waited a long time for revenge against the people who killed my mom."
Stuard made a last attempt at changing Jarod's mind. "Surely you don't want the deaths of two people on your head?"
"It's better than 400," Jarod quipped. Then he smiled. "It's too late anyway. You guys should die right about ... now."
As if on cue, both of the men heaved a sigh and collapsed. Jarod pulled a tape recorder out from behind the visor over his head. He ejected the tape and slipped it into an envelope he marked 'To the DA. Re: Airplane Crash on 11/26.' After a brief call to the police during which he calmly informed them of two unconscious men were linked to the 'accident', Jarod hailed a taxi and returned to his motel.
An e-mail was waiting for Jarod when he got back. He clicked on the image of the mailbox, which had the words 'You Have Mail' spinning around it. He ignored an outdated and unopened e-mail titled 'Become a Graphic Designer' and clicked on the one under it, which was titled 'Refuge'.
There was a short message, which read, "INFORMATION ON MOTHER. CLICK HERE: . SYDNEY." Needless to say, he clicked on the link.
A web page loaded quickly, and Jarod soon realized why Sydney had sent it to him. The site was devoted to the victims of the crash of November 26th. There was a complete list of victims, whose names one could click to visit pages where family and friends could talk about their loved ones. Once again, he scanned the list, expecting to find his mother and hoping he would be able to talk to people who knew her. To his surprise, the name 'Margaret Russell' never appeared. He scanned twice, thrice, again and again, but to no avail. She's still alive, he realized. A kind of expressionless joy ran through him and he simply could not stop grinning. Picking up the handset of a touch-tone phone, he dialed Sydney.
"Sydney here," the doctor said on the other end.
"Hi. It's Jarod."
The psychiatrist was elated to get a call from the Pretender. "Oh, Jarod! It's nice to hear you again. Did you get the e-mail?"
"That's what I came to call you about. Thanks for the link."
"You're welcome."
"One thing, Sydney," Jarod said. "How did you know about my mom?"
"Broots gave me a couple of tapes he had stolen from the Tech Room. One was labeled November 29th. The other, December 1st."
"Oh," Jarod murmured. "Then you know also know about me choking him."
"It's all right. Not only did he find your mother first, you thought he took away all chance of your knowing her."
"I can't believe I fell for it," Jarod said slightly sheepishly.
"It's all right," Sydney assured him. "There'll be plenty of time to find her, and in the meantime, you can be a thorn in Lyle's side."
The Pretender laughed. "Alright." Having nothing else to say, he said, "Well, bye, Sydney, and thanks again for the site."
"Goodbye, Jarod," the doctor returned. In his office, he heard the click on the other side and hung up.
In his lair, the genius took out a pair of scissors and cut out an article from a newspaper he had before him. The title read "Men Responsible for 11-26 Crash in Custody", and he added it to a red notebook he'd filled with articles on the crash.