Chapter 3
Michael sat in the back seat of the car. It was a very nice car, with an interior of supple red leather, highest quality so it didn't stick when you sat on it too long. A dozen different gadgets would have had any other boy investigating them immediately, but Michael stayed right in the middle of the seat. Teacher was muttering something, apparently not for Michael to hear, so he didn't listen.
Teacher finished and touched something on the dashboard, then stared out the window for a moment. Michael watched the reflection of his face; it looked somewhat confused, and he wondered who Teacher had been talking to. Then Teacher's face closed over again and he twisted the key hard in the ignition.
Despite Teacher's forcefulness, the car responded evenly, and the pedal-to-the-medal tactics he used did not affect the smoothness of the ride. Michael watched the cars outside until Teacher whipped off the road, then turned and observed the houses they were passing and the cars in their driveways. He noticed that the car in one of the driveways was an exact copy of the one he was in, and its engine was still running as they came up to pass it by; he wondered momentarily why.
An instant later his thoughts were violently changed. Someone in the car did something too quick for Michael to see, the glass in the windshield gave a hollow thunk, and Teacher's entire body went limp. The car swerved violently to the right and smashed into a car parked at the side of the road. Michael's seat belt kept him from flying into the front seat, but he was too intent on what had just happened to notice that or the jerk he'd received from the belt.
Teacher had been killed, again; the second time this had happened. The last time, he'd been a human shield for Michael, and the other guards in the compound had protected him after that; this time, there were no other guards, and he knew he'd have to fend for himself. He unbuckled his belt and prepared to run for it, out the left side door, but before he could even turn the handle someone opened the right door and grabbed his arm. He spun his head around to see a tall, well-built man in a uniform that covered his whole body; a black mask hid his face.
"Don't try that, son," he told Michael, in a low but not unkind voice. Michael felt the strength in his grip and knew he could not have resisted this man even were he older; he left off trying to open the door and sat back down. "Good." As the man closed the door, Michael noticed another man, similarly attired but far shorter, coming around to the driver's side to remove Teacher's body. A third man was apparently still in the other car, as it pulled out of the driveway and headed right, down the street and out of sight. The tall man shook his head at Teacher's corpse and folded himself into the driver's seat.
"Didn't want to have to do that," he said regretfully, watching the short man drag the body away and into the house. "This is more important than one life, though-- more than mine, more than yours." Michael wondered who his abductors were and what they planned to do with him. Since he could not currently escape, he decided to talk with the tall man; he seemed almost trustworthy.
"Did you know him?" he asked. The tall man glanced back at him.
"Did," he retorted shortly. "Now we need to get you to safety." Michael wondered at this, but again did nothing. The man pulled the car out carefully, then turned and followed the same road the other car had taken. One, two, three blocks passed. A park. A lone roller-blader. Then the tall man pulled aside into another driveway, sharing it with a taxi. He slammed the car into park, jumped out, and yanked open Michael's door.
"Get out, now," he said tensely, and Michael slid from the seat and out. The man grabbed him by one shoulder and propelled him into the house, slamming the door with a foot as he did so.
The house seemed deserted. A silent laptop computer, packed up in one corner, provided the total of the living room's decor, and Michael wondered again if this was normal before the man stomped on a floorboard. Its opposite end sprang up, and with that a trapdoor. He reached down and extracted a backpack.
"Change into this," he grunted, handing it to Michael. "Be sure to change everything. Bathroom's right through there," pointing. Michael obeyed. "And don't try to escape!" he added as Michael closed the door.
Michael looked around the bathroom. A shower in one corner, a sink, no toilet-- and no window. He shrugged and changed his clothes; the backpack held a garish outfit, complete with oddly-patterned white shoes and a pair of soft gloves. He packed his suit and fitted it carefully back into the pack.
"Done?" the man called.
"Yes," replied Michael, and opened the door. The moment Michael appeared the man seized the backpack.
"Back to the car." Michael walked to the door without a word, the man's hand firmly on his shoulder. The man flung the backpack into the black car, pushed Michael into the taxi and drove off.
"Where are we going?"
"Do you expect me to tell you?" Michael considered this for a moment.
"Yes. How could it help anyone? I am in your custody, unable to pass on the information; if they come to rescue me they will obviously have known where I am without my telling them." The man laughed bitterly.
"Well reasoned, but I won't tell you. Here-- put this on and lie down for a nap." He handed back an eye-covering headband and concentrated on the steering wheel. Michael deliberated for a moment; he would like to know where he was, and he didn't understand why he needed to cover his eyes, but he knew that, above all else, he needed to get along with his captor. Or captors. If he annoyed them to the point that they killed him, knowing the countryside wouldn't help him. He finally put on the headband and lay down-- but he did not sleep.
---
Gunther followed the BMW through one intersection after another, and the car kept on a course parallel to the main road a couple of blocks over. He guessed and hoped Fielding was just using this quiet street to avoid the heavy traffic; if the man was indeed a traitor, he should have been shot back at the crossroads.
The car reached another intersection. Apparently, Fielding did not think stop signs applied when turning right, and Gunther muttered as the black car accelerated toward the road. Always respectful of the law himself, Gunther stopped just long enough to be legal then chased the escaping BMW.
He nearly lost the car at the stoplight, but a fortunate semi started pulling out before it really got the green and Fielding had to stop. Gunther idled his car up behind the black car, sending silent thanks to the semi's driver, and took a moment to check up on his charge.
A blink and his eyes shifted to telescopic mode, allowing him to scrutinize everything about the car. Fielding, good, body language looked impatient; the child, good, very still.
Very, very still. What if?- he switched to infrared mode, heart beating faster.
Whatever that was in the backseat ahead of him, it was the same temperature as the rest of the car.
Gunther started in shock. A voice somewhere back in his brain began moaning that his career was over, he could be court-martialed and executed-- but he ignored it and focused on his mission. He looked now to Fielding; at least, to the man in the driver's seat. Virtually identical in appearance, from the back, but his body temperature was nearly a full degree Celsius different from Fielding's.
Gunther growled bitterly. His first impulse was to jump from the car, walk to the BMW's window and shoot the imposter. A moment of thinking told him he would do infinitely better to follow to a more secluded area and get all information possible from this man. Then shoot him, perhaps. But his original impulse had almost completely died now, and he never wanted to kill needlessly: no, he would not kill him. He shrugged helplessly, angrily. There was really no other option; he had to follow this charlatan, right into whatever trap might be waiting.
The light changed, and Gunther continued his pursuit.
An hour later, the game was clearly up. The target car had worked its way around the city with no destination, then headed back to the airport, without ever passing through any suitably witness-free area. Time for desperate measures-- but he could think of no plan to catch his prey without creating a police situation.
They stopped at another light. Gunther deliberated for a moment, then reactivated his enhanced vision and recorded every scrap of information on the man he could access. That finished, he sighed and activated his internal radio. A beep audible only to him signaled its readiness.
"Headquarters," he stated.
"Hold," the gender-less computer voice replied. Gunther blinked, once; didn't Deep Blue operations get a permanent human on the other end? Another myth dispelled by the reality of bureaucracy. Then a snap heralded the arrival of someone at the other end.
"Gunther."
"I have lost the car," he replied, hoping his accent wouldn't obscure his words to whoever was talking to him; he didn't recognize the voice.
"You lost the car you were assigned to protect?" The voice wasn't incredulous; rather, it seemed to be almost curious. On the street ahead, the light changed, and Gunther went back to following the car.
"Yes. Now I am needing assistance. There is a car identical to the vun I vas folloving, but I cannot find a vay to talk vith the driver vithout attracting police."
Gunther heard something suspiciously like a snicker, and silently cursed his poor English. "I suppose you think we can help you? What information do you need?"
"Any you can give me. I am in car behind the other car, a black BMW. Ve are on-" he peered out the window- "Freedom Street in outskirts of New York. Do you have any information about vhat happened to the car back about 45 minutes?"
The voice deliberated a moment, and Gunther heard the sound of a keyboard. "Actually, they put a satellite on you," the man replied, sounding surprised. "However, your original contact here actually had a heart attack right about the time you mention. I came in a little after, but was unaware of this; there's probably other things available, but I don't know about them or how to access them."
"Vhat do the satellite images tell?"
"Difficult to say," the voice came back after a moment. "Visual is obscured by clouds. None of the specialty wavelengths show anything distinct-- X-rays, ultraviolet, etc. Infrared shows the car pulling into a flat zone, then a slightly different one pulling back out the other side-- no heat differences recorded anywhere within that area. I'd guess they got a shield, so I can't tell you what happened in that spot. I can tell you where it is, though: back on Shady Maple Avenue, between Woody Circle and Leaf Street. Funny names, those..." Suddenly the voice froze. Then, "#*^%! You're on a Deep Blue mission!" Gunther smiled mirthlessly.
"Jah, I am."
"No wonder you have a satellite. Let me call the commander here, I'll get right back to you!" With another beep the connection severed.
A precious lot of good that did me, Gunther reflected. He knew where whatever had happened had happened, and these people were clearly quite well-organized enough to remove any clues from whatever he might find there. Nevertheless, wouldn't hurt to check. He hated leaving off the chase, after going through with it for so long, but it couldn't be helped; he pulled off on Shady Maple and cruised down to the flat zone.