Hey, it's a new chapter! ARK gets it's act together, and Jamie has a tender moment with her daddy.
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Chapter sixteen: I'm Already There
Charles Holt hadn't worked for Peter Fleming for years without gaining some measure of power in ARK Corporation. Fleming himself had implied that his assistant's orders were just as good as his, should he (Fleming) be incapacitated beyond his ability to give said orders. It helped that Charles was quite good with public relations and stretching money further than should have been possible. He also had an organizational mind like a steel trap.
So, when it was discovered that Fleming was incapacitated beyond his ability to continue running the company, ARK turned to Charles, instead of the Board of Directors. (And, quite honestly, the board was only there to appease the public; most of them were useless timewasters looking for a hefty paycheck. The best minds in ARK were division heads who answered directly to Fleming, Charles, or the nearest appointed representative Fleming had on hand.)
The assistant drew a lot of odd looks when he sat down in Fleming's spot at the emergency meeting. And then he told the assembled heads of security and the newest chief of police (some little rat named Mick Reese, whom no one liked very much and was hoping got killed) why he was there instead of their employer. All hell broke loose.
"Settle down, please," Charles said, calm as ever. There was a rumor going around that he was on serious sedatives that made him as calm as he was, or that he'd been recruited from the CIA or MI6 (more likely MI6, given that Fleming was British). Whatever the reason was, people quieted down instantly when Charles gave them an order.
"We have less than forty-eight hours, if the data we still have access to is correct, to rescue Officer Philips," Charles continued. "Mr. Fleming is currently out of commission, but his physician says he will make a full recovery within the next week. No, he is not in any danger of dying, Walton." The last bit was directed to the CFO of the company, who, while he performed the singularly spectacular role of keeping the accountants and their department running smoothly, was a greedy bastard who'd had his eye on becoming the CEO for years. Charles was second in line for that honor, after Miss Fleming, of course. None of the Board of Directors was anywhere near becoming the CEO, even the temporary one were neither Fleming available.
"Where do you suggest we start?" Sawyer spoke up from his spot at the very end of the table. He was the duly elected representative of the security teams, which, despite their name, had nothing at all to do with the police force controlled by ARK.
"Given where our information is pointing," Charles replied, "I suggest we start with the offices and home of Doctor Nathaniel Samuels."
Surprisingly enough, no one argued with the suggestion.
- o – o -
Sawyer led the team that raided Samuels' home on Gold Beach. Given the neighborhood's proximity to the docks and Trolley Park, one wouldn't have expected it to be as upscale as it was. But that was Palm City—you could have squalor right next to a shining palace, and no one would comment. Samuels lived right on the border, although the ten-foot high brick fence surrounding his property probably helped keep the denizens of Trolley Park out.
The gate came down easily. It probably helped that the drivers of the two hummers used for barricade ramming had put pedal to the metal to break it down. (They'd been called back from Iraq for causing excessive property damage. In this case, ARK was quite happy to look the other way.) Within minutes, the ARK soldiers had spread out over the property like a horde of black beetles, rifling through everything they could get their hands on. Cadaver dogs had been brought in, as had the forensics team with some of the newer models of a Ground-penetrating Radar system. (It wasn't due on the general market for another year, but the forensics teams swore by it.)
Across town in the business district, the same thing—minus the hummers—was happening at Samuels' office. The only difference was that the fire department had gotten there first, and was attempting to salvage the building the office was housed in. It was mostly a losing battle, and the fire chief sadly informed Chief Reese that anything recovered from the premises would be a charred mess, and of use to no one. Whoever had set the fire had known what he or she was doing.
It was only an hour later, when the fires were put out, that Samuels' secretary was discovered in his main office, tied to a chair. Judging by the look on her face, she'd been burned alive. Samuels had another murder added to his record, although this was the only one the arson squad could determine was completely his. The Appraiser Murders were still speculation at this point, but everyone knew it was Samuels.
Reese, for possibly the first time in a year, grew a spine. The press room at ARK had done enough damage already. When the first microphone was shoved in his face, Reese turned to the camera, glared, and said "No comment". Normally, Reese would have been the first one to give the press a comment, just because he could.
The second reporter was summarily arrested for interfering in an investigation. After that, the press cleared out pretty quickly. The ARK detectives pawing through the debris for any clues that might have survived the inferno all gave Reese the first respectful salutes of his career as he got into his car to head over to the other side of the city to check on the situation there, so he could make his report back to the temporary head of ARK.
Back at Samuels' home, the troops had discovered a library, hidden behind a false wall in the man's bedroom. The investigator in charge of evidence had spent a good ten minutes out on the lawn, retching, after going over the room with the Advance Light Source—ALS, or a blacklight for the extreme layman. No one wanted to ask, but they all suspected the same thing—bodily fluids and god knew what else. The leader of the team tearing the room apart advised everyone to wear gloves and face masks, and offered to spot everyone six or so rounds of beers after the case was wrapped up.
No one argued.
The problems really started coming when the videos were discovered. Someone had to watch them to go over the evidence, and no one was volunteering. Sawyer came up with the solution and cut a few flowers out of the immaculately tended flowerbeds. It wasn't exactly manly, but one of the newer transfers, a poor soul from Europe named Saul Stoykova, got the short straw. Everyone offered to pay into the pool for his therapy; they were being serious.
Several hours later, the teams had finished cataloguing evidence from both sites. Stoykova had been let off shift after he started babbling in his native language, far too fast for anyone to understand, including his translator. His reports had been turned in for him, and he was quietly put on medical leave for the foreseeable future. There was a wave of sympathy for the man as he was sedated. Given what they'd already seen from the now-missing crime scene photos, they didn't need to fill in too many blanks to guess.
Sawyer watched the last crime scene van rumble away, well past dusk. He and Reese were the only ones left at the house, aside from the three men responsible for keeping it locked down until a suitable press conference could be arranged and reporters could be let in to examine it. Sawyer, at least, had the fortitude not to jump when the Cape appeared out of nowhere. He reached over and disabled Reese's radio before the other man could call in a team to arrest the vigilante.
"What do you want, Cape?" he asked pleasantly, sitting down on the steps leading up to the wraparound porch. Sawyer looked far more casual then he felt, and that was saying something. Considering that the vigilante he and Reese were not arresting was standing so close to them, it was saying something.
"You need help," the vigilante rasped. Sawyer idly wondered if he ate gravel while watching Batman movies, or if it was just a masked vigilante thing. "I can help."
"And why should we take your word for that?" Reese snarled right back. Sawyer wondered if he could pin the shooting on the Cape. Nah. It wasn't worth it—what would Fleming do without another convenient scapegoat?
"Because I know, roughly," the vigilante rasped, "Where your quarry may be hiding."
Sawyer raised an eyebrow. "And what's stopping me from beating a confession out of you?"
The Cape looked at Sawyer for a few seconds, lips twitching. Then he threw his head back and laughed. Something about the laugh—like a jackal or a hyena—made Sawyer stare at the vigilante, a trickle of ice running down his spine. He'd been near a guy who laughed like that while he set things on fire or blew them up. It…hadn't been pleasant, actually. He'd been in therapy afterwards, for nearly a year.
The vigilante stopped laughing. "I have a stake in this too," the Cape rasped.
That had Sawyer and Reese sharing a look. One of the victims had been married to another man, one who's identity had never been discovered. But… Nah. The Cape would have appeared at least three years ago if that had been the case. And he wouldn't have been going after ARK either. (Sawyer personally though the vigilante had lost his son or something—maybe even his wife and kids, which was why he was so buddy-buddy with the Faraday widow and her son, Trip. That would factor into what Sexton hadn't relayed in his reports…)
"Fine," Sawyer said abruptly, surprising both the vigilante and Chief Reese (allegedly his superior, but Sawyer wasn't part of the police force). "But you follow my orders, soldier, and you keep your head down around my men." Sawyer was a good few inches taller than the Cape, but skinnier. He was still able to loom over the man like he did with his step-daughter's boyfriends, though, which was a blessing.
"Just as long as I get my piece," the Cape responded evenly, blue eyes twinkling at some unknown joke. He vanished in a puff of smoke that had Sawyer on his knees, retching and gasping for air.
"Interesting person," Reese commented idly from his spot on the stairs.
"You have no idea," Sawyer wheezed.
- o – o -
Anarchy was the king of stupid ideas. He'd gained the title after mooning an ARK officer, who'd been trying to give him a ticket for double-parking. He liked stupid ideas—if everyone thought they were stupid, they were more likely to work. (Sadly, the hacker's logic had worked more than once, which made Orwell grudgingly admit he might have a point.) That being said, he was stumped when Orwell announced her new grand plan.
"You want to what?" Anarchy screeched, lemon-yellow dreadlocks bristling like porcupine quills. Orwell stared at him, unimpressed. She crossed her arms, looking a good deal more severe than a twenty-three-year-old should have been able to.
"I want to visit my father," Orwell stated evenly.
"But…but why?" Anarchy persisted. "Isn't he, you know, all evil and shit? I thought that was the point of your blog? To prove that he needed to be deposed and kicked around like a football, and then locked up for his crimes?" Orwell hated to admit it, but Anarchy was right. That was kind of the point. The other hacker had no right to judge her for her plan though, considering what he did on a daily basis.
"Because he's my father, and… Well," she shrugged, "despite everything, part of me still wants to be his ballerina." She stuck out her lower lip in what would inevitably turn into a pout. "I just want you to drive me, Gailord," Orwell added sweetly, using Anarchy's first name. It was guaranteed to get results the first fifteen times it was used. After that, his middle name—Eustace—had to be added in to get him motivated.
"You are a horrible bitch, Jamie," Anarchy grumbled, grabbing his keys from the desk he'd claimed as his. "Let's go."
"Thank you sweetie," Orwell—Jamie—said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She had to stand on tiptoe, on a pile of books, to reach his cheek, but the resulting blush was worth it.
Anarchy, despite his wild appearance, drove a perfectly sensible Ford pickup truck. It was nondescript and a bit boring. Of course, if one pried the cover off the truck bed, they would have called the bomb squad, the cadaver dogs, the National Enquirer, and probably NASA, just to identify everything he kept back there.
Fifteen minutes later, Anarchy had pulled up to the service entrance of the private hospital Fleming was being kept at. Orwell shot Anarchy a nervous look as she got out of the cab. Anarchy sighed and smiled at her.
"I'll keep the motor running," Anarchy promised, before laying down across the bench seat. It wasn't enough to keep him hidden, but it would make it look more like one of the staff members had left their truck idling back there. (Or one of the delivery people had, but whatever.)
Orwell hurried up the stairs to the back door, shoving her blank keycard into the electronic lock. The algorithm in the data strip on the card worked furiously for a few seconds before the lock clicked open, admitting a "Doctor Hans Weismann" to the facility. Jamie had no idea who he was, but hoped he wouldn't get into too much trouble.
Once inside, the hacker changed into a pair of scrubs, stuffed her things into her backpack, and grabbed a clipboard. She was less likely to be stopped if it looked like she worked there. The hacker brought up her mental floor plan of the hospital, and began following it up the back stairwells to reach her father's room.
She was unprepared for the sight she saw. Her father, Peter Fleming, was hooked up to half a dozen machines, all of which were beeping softly. He'd been intubated to keep him breathing, as whatever Samuels had done to him seemed to have stopped his lungs from working without aid.
Orwell was shoved ruthlessly into the depths. Jamie didn't need to be the hacker right now, because her daddy needed her. Not the hacker, but his little ballerina. The twenty-three-year-old sat down on the uncomfortable plastic chair next to his bed, pulling one of his hands—the one without the IV line attached to it—into hers. It was warm and slightly rough to the touch, mostly from his fencing and (hopefully still secret) hobby of building small things.
Not many people knew it, but a lot of the wooden knickknacks in Peter Fleming's home were handmade by him. Only Jamie and his late wife, Danielle, knew that he enjoyed woodcarving. Jamie and Danielle had both enjoyed watching him carve something so that it took shape beneath his hands. One of Jamie's earliest memories was sitting, half-curled up in his lap, watching as Peter carved a ballerina figurine to go in the music box he'd found at an estate sale earlier that month. He'd laughed as she'd exclaimed in horror over the fact that he'd cut his thumb open while carving.
Jamie's hand found the nick on his thumb, and she smiled as she traced the cut with her own thumb, lost in the memory. After a few minutes, the hacker lost her composure and broke down sobbing, burying her face in the mattress next to her father's pillow.
"Please wake up, daddy," she whispered, voice muffled by the stiff white sheets.
She couldn't be sure if it was just her imagination, but Jamie swore that—just for a second—her father's hand tightened around hers. That assured Jamie that, despite everything, it was going to be alright.
Even if it was just her imagination.
- o – o -
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