Read Online Origin - Season One by Nathaniel Dean James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nathaniel Dean James
Tags: Science-Fiction
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know?”
“We caught him trying to sneak ashore at the back of the house. Rowed up in a little rubber boat. He knew about the break-in. Says he was paid to help a man named Walter Scott get into the Fed. He made a run for it and shot himself in his own backyard before we could stop him.”
“And the drive?”
“He said he didn’t know where it was, but I’m pretty sure he was lying. We searched the house and found the safe open in his office. One of the neighbors saw his wife leave before we arrived. I’m betting she’s taken it with her. Why else would he have shot himself, if not to protect her?”
“Have you got a plate?”
“Massachusetts 1 3 X P 2 7. It’s a black Audi A4 convertible.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Jack said. “I’ll call you back.”
Jack left the office and walked to the lobby. When the elevator door was closed, he pressed not one button, but six in quick succession. There was a brief pause, then the elevator rose for a moment and the doors opened again.
He stepped out into a room that occupied the entire seventy-ninth floor. The four massive steel girders that supported the building stood exposed at the edges, and the floor-to-ceiling windows were all heavily tinted, giving it the look of an enormous and sparsely furnished studio apartment. The building’s elevator shaft ran through the middle of the room. At one end, several wide office desks had been pushed together to form a long counter against the windows overlooking Central Park. It was littered from end to end with a haphazard collection of computers, screens and cables.
“Marius, I need you to find someone for me,” Jack said.
Marius Botha was a white South African in his mid-thirties. His face was deeply tanned and covered with freckles. He wore a thick pair of black framed glasses, the type issued by the army and commonly referred to as Rape Prevention Devices for their distinguishing lack of style. His deep Afrikaans accent often made it difficult to understand a word he was saying.
Jack handed Marius a sheet of paper. “Black A4 convertible. Left Rockport Massachusetts about an hour and a half ago.”
Marius took the sheet and Jack watched as he began to do what he did best.
“What’s going on?” Marius asked finally.
“I’ll tell you later.”
It took him just over five minutes to find Cynthia’s car.
“This was captured an hour ago on the Blue Star Memorial Highway,” Marius said, pointing at a grainy image on one of the monitors.
“Bring it up on a map,” Jack said.
Marius opened a window on another screen and brought up a map of Massachusetts. He zoomed in and pointed at Interstate 495 just below the town of Lowell. Something flashed up on a third screen and Marius turned to it. “That’s it. Northbound on Interstate 91.”
Jack took out his phone and called Rollins back. “She’s making a run for the border up I-91. Call me as soon as you find her.”
Chapter 18
Morisson, Vermont
Monday 17 July 2006
2100 EDT
Amanda was in the driveway, leaning on the hood of her father’s prized ‘68 Chevy Impala when Jesse arrived.
“I’ve missed you,” she said as soon as he got out.
“I’ve missed you too, Mandy.”
She pointed at the Volvo and raised her eyebrows. “Your mom’s station wagon? Classy!”
When they reached the interstate, Jesse said, “So, you gonna tell me what brings you back to the Big M in the middle of the semester?”
“I will. But not until I’ve had a drink.”
“You drink now?”
“Are you kidding? It’s practically illegal not to in college.”
The parking lot at Fryer’s was almost empty. They walked through a pair of western-style saloon doors into a large room dotted with round wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Half a dozen people were sitting at the bar, most sipping bottles of beer and watching the game on TV. To the left of the door, an old jukebox was playing “Dixieland Delight” by Alabama.
They took a table at the back of the
“We caught him trying to sneak ashore at the back of the house. Rowed up in a little rubber boat. He knew about the break-in. Says he was paid to help a man named Walter Scott get into the Fed. He made a run for it and shot himself in his own backyard before we could stop him.”
“And the drive?”
“He said he didn’t know where it was, but I’m pretty sure he was lying. We searched the house and found the safe open in his office. One of the neighbors saw his wife leave before we arrived. I’m betting she’s taken it with her. Why else would he have shot himself, if not to protect her?”
“Have you got a plate?”
“Massachusetts 1 3 X P 2 7. It’s a black Audi A4 convertible.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Jack said. “I’ll call you back.”
Jack left the office and walked to the lobby. When the elevator door was closed, he pressed not one button, but six in quick succession. There was a brief pause, then the elevator rose for a moment and the doors opened again.
He stepped out into a room that occupied the entire seventy-ninth floor. The four massive steel girders that supported the building stood exposed at the edges, and the floor-to-ceiling windows were all heavily tinted, giving it the look of an enormous and sparsely furnished studio apartment. The building’s elevator shaft ran through the middle of the room. At one end, several wide office desks had been pushed together to form a long counter against the windows overlooking Central Park. It was littered from end to end with a haphazard collection of computers, screens and cables.
“Marius, I need you to find someone for me,” Jack said.
Marius Botha was a white South African in his mid-thirties. His face was deeply tanned and covered with freckles. He wore a thick pair of black framed glasses, the type issued by the army and commonly referred to as Rape Prevention Devices for their distinguishing lack of style. His deep Afrikaans accent often made it difficult to understand a word he was saying.
Jack handed Marius a sheet of paper. “Black A4 convertible. Left Rockport Massachusetts about an hour and a half ago.”
Marius took the sheet and Jack watched as he began to do what he did best.
“What’s going on?” Marius asked finally.
“I’ll tell you later.”
It took him just over five minutes to find Cynthia’s car.
“This was captured an hour ago on the Blue Star Memorial Highway,” Marius said, pointing at a grainy image on one of the monitors.
“Bring it up on a map,” Jack said.
Marius opened a window on another screen and brought up a map of Massachusetts. He zoomed in and pointed at Interstate 495 just below the town of Lowell. Something flashed up on a third screen and Marius turned to it. “That’s it. Northbound on Interstate 91.”
Jack took out his phone and called Rollins back. “She’s making a run for the border up I-91. Call me as soon as you find her.”
Chapter 18
Morisson, Vermont
Monday 17 July 2006
2100 EDT
Amanda was in the driveway, leaning on the hood of her father’s prized ‘68 Chevy Impala when Jesse arrived.
“I’ve missed you,” she said as soon as he got out.
“I’ve missed you too, Mandy.”
She pointed at the Volvo and raised her eyebrows. “Your mom’s station wagon? Classy!”
When they reached the interstate, Jesse said, “So, you gonna tell me what brings you back to the Big M in the middle of the semester?”
“I will. But not until I’ve had a drink.”
“You drink now?”
“Are you kidding? It’s practically illegal not to in college.”
The parking lot at Fryer’s was almost empty. They walked through a pair of western-style saloon doors into a large room dotted with round wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Half a dozen people were sitting at the bar, most sipping bottles of beer and watching the game on TV. To the left of the door, an old jukebox was playing “Dixieland Delight” by Alabama.
They took a table at the back of the
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