Daemon (12 page)

Ross pointed and shouted. “Slow down!”

The estate fence was wrought iron with a masonry base. They crashed through it going at least thirty, nosed down onto Potrero Road, and slammed into the ditch on the far side. Ross held his hands up and smashed against the windshield with the other two deputies sitting up front. They shattered it with their weight, then slammed back against the seat as the truck came to a complete stop.

There were groans of pain from the wounded and the newly wounded. Someone shouted, “What the fuck are you trying to do, get us all killed?”

Ross shook his head clear and could now hear approaching sirens. Lots of them. He looked at his hands. They were only slightly cut. He followed the deputies out of the truck.

They raced around the overturned bomb squad trailer to the estate side of the road. They could see the Hummer still on the other side of the fence. It wasn’t following them, but was instead charging around the lawn like a raging bull, spinning and tearing up the turf.

The officers opened fire on it again, emptying shotguns, pistols, and an M-16 rifle while shouting obscenities. The Hummer raced off toward the mansion.

Ross covered his ears against the noise and looked up the road to see approaching emergency vehicles.

It had begun. He knew there was no hope of containing the Daemon now. And guns were useless against it.

A
nderson’s North Beach condo had twelve-foot pressed-tin ceilings, original wood floors, full-height windows with a fabulous view of the windows across the street, and enough Victorian charm to draw grudging praise from the snottiest folks she knew. It had taken her years to decorate, and she never tired of appreciating the style it reflected upon her. Even though she could no longer afford it.

But her eyes were riveted right now to the plasma screen television hanging within a Victorian picture frame on her living room wall. There was breaking news from Thousand Oaks, California—just as The Voice had promised.

She sat numb with fear and excitement all at once, soaking up the images on the screen.

In the absence of facts, a local reporter was breathlessly transforming hearsay into news under the harsh lights of a live remote: “Thanks, Sandy. Sources describe a scene of total carnage and devastation on the estate. The area has been cordoned off, with FBI tactical units brought in. Once again, a robotic killing machine is roaming the estate grounds, unleashed by a recently deceased madman. That madman: Matthew Sobol.“

Anderson’s cell phone vibrated on the coffee table in front of her. She looked at it and recoiled in terror. The phone vibrated again, moving slightly across the tabletop.

Christiane Amanpour would answer it.

Anderson timidly picked up the phone and pressed the
SEND
button—not saying anything, just listening.

A man’s voice came over the line.
“Do you know who I am? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

She watched the video footage of injured policemen being loaded into ambulances. “Yes.”

“Clearly speak my name.”

“Matthew…Sobol.”

There was silence for a moment. Then,
“If you contact the authorities, I will know, and you will lose the exclusive on this story.”

Anderson’s hands were trembling as the voice continued.

“I am analyzing your verbal responses with voice stress analysis software—I can tell if you lie to me. Answer truthfully or our relationship is over. Remember: I have extended my will beyond physical death. I will never be gone from this earth. Do not make an enemy of me.”

Anderson dared not even breathe. She wasn’t a religious person—but she felt as if an evil force was on the other end of the line. An immortal being.

“Do you still want to be a journalist? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson swallowed hard and took a breath. She used her best broadcasting voice. “Yes.” Anderson’s heart raced.

There was a pause.

“Do you want access to exclusive information on this story? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’…”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Do you agree to keep our relationship secret from everyone—with no exceptions? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“Are you prepared to follow my instructions in exchange for success and power? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson caught her breath. This was the proverbial Rubicon. If she crossed it, there was likely no turning back. Years from now she would remember this moment with either regret or relief—but she knew she would never forget it.

The Voice insisted,
“Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson’s mind raced. She couldn’t let it go now. It was a machine—it wouldn’t judge her. Worse, she would never know the whole story if she declined. Didn’t a real journalist pursue the story no matter what? Wasn’t that admirable?

“Yes.”

Yet another pause.

“Do you believe in God? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson was taken aback. She hesitated, not sure whether she did or not. Then, “No?”

A pause.

She half expected a lightning bolt to smite her.

Suddenly the British-sounding female voice cut in, speaking with its clipped, synthetic efficiency.

“Your user ID is…J-92. Remember your ID…J-92. It is your identity. You have been assigned a role. If you deviate from this role—for any reason—you will be removed from the system. Follow all instructions, and the system will protect and reward you.”

Anderson was trying to gather her thoughts to say something, but then she realized there was no one to say anything to. She had cashed in her morals at a vending machine.

The Voice continued like the unstoppable force it was.
“An airline ticket is waiting under your human name at the…Southwest Airlines…ticket counter at…Oakland International…Airport. Proceed to this location within the next…four…hours. If you speak to anyone else regarding this matter, you will be killed.”

The line went dead.

Anderson stifled a scream of terror. What had she done?

She looked up to see video footage of body bags being lifted into a coroner’s van on the evening news
—
mute testimony to the truth of the threat.

S
ebeck knelt on the ground next to a black body bag. He stared emptily at the fading sunlight reflected on the black vinyl.

Ross watched from some distance away, leaning against the side of an ambulance. Five more body bags were lined up nearby. FBI agents consoled each other. There were tears on many faces.

Sebeck took a deep breath and finally stood. He turned toward Ross with a smoldering rage. “Jon!”

Ross followed as Sebeck strode through the tarpaulin walls of the makeshift morgue and into a crowd of FBI agents, local police, county tactical teams, paramedics, reporters, and technicians laying siege to Sobol’s estate. Literally hundreds of people ringed the place. City workers were setting up construction lights to illuminate the staging area as the sun began to set. The road was closed to civilian traffic, and something resembling a heavily armed county fair stretched along its length. Police from three neighboring jurisdictions were on hand.

Nearby homes had been evacuated. The Feds were in the process of quarantining the Daemon; power and phone people were cutting service to Sobol’s property. Sebeck could see their hydraulic lifts clustered around utility poles a considerable distance from the estate. He guessed power was being killed to the entire neighborhood, and diesel generators added to the general din.

Sebeck kept moving, tugging Ross through the crowd, alternately surging ahead, then turning back to face him.

“It can’t be a machine. There’s a living person behind this.”

Ross didn’t respond.

“Someone was controlling that Hummer.”

Ross looked grim. “My condolences on Deputy Larson.”

Sebeck glared at him. “Don’t you tell me that was software.”

“It could be done—using the same AI engine that controls characters in a computer game. We were the objective. We’re just infrared heat sources.”

Sebeck shook his head. “Bullshit.”

“Any word on Detective Mantz? He was hanging on to the trailer last time I saw him.”

“Broken leg and a couple of broken ribs. Someone is going to pay for this.”

“Sobol is dead, Pete.”

“I don’t care. Someone is going to pay.”

“I know you’re upset.” Ross gestured to encompass the scene. “Where are we going?”

“To find Agent Decker. He needs to hear your theory about how Sobol’s doing this. Maybe they can use the information to contain this thing.”

“Sergeant, the Daemon probably spread to the four corners of the world in minutes. It’s too late for containment. What you have to do is understand what it’s trying to accomplish and prevent it from accomplishing it.”

“It’s trying to
kill
people—wake up.”

Ross spoke calmly. “Pete, think about it: If all it wanted to do was kill people, why did it phone you to find out if you were present? Why didn’t it kill you in the courtyard when it had the chance? We all saw that Hummer stop and turn away from you. The Daemon has plans for you, and I’m sure it has plans for others as well.”

Sebeck fumed for a bit, but then what Ross said began to sink in. “We’ve got to find Decker.” Sebeck pointed at the county sheriff’s mobile command trailer a couple hundred yards away. “That’s probably where he’ll be.” He started walking toward it.

Ross grabbed Sebeck’s sleeve.

“What?”

“Why are police massing around the estate?”

Sebeck gave Ross a quizzical look. “What do you suggest they do?”

“The house is not important, Pete. It won’t contain any useful information.”

“The hell it won’t.”

“Let’s not replay this map. We’re wasting time.”

Sebeck raised his eyebrows. “So you think this is that much of a game to Sobol?”

“I think
life
was a game to Sobol.”

Sebeck sighed, truly lost. “Why would Sobol issue a press release forbidding the Feds from entering the property if there wasn’t anything important inside?”

“Will the Feds defy the demand?”

“
I
would. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?”

Ross pointed.
“That’s
why Sobol did it.”

“You think he’s just pushing the FBI’s buttons?”

“More than that. He publicly drew a line in the sand against authority. They’ll have little choice but to cross it, and people will die. He’s manipulating them—to keep public attention focused on this location.”

“But why? If Sobol killed the two programmers to protect the secrets of the Daemon’s design, then what’s the purpose behind the Hummer? Isn’t it also to protect the Daemon?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why in the hell would he go through so much trouble?”

Ross thought for a moment, then looked back up at Sebeck. “What do you think will be the number one news story in the world tonight?”

Sebeck didn’t hesitate. “This.”

“Right. And
that’s
what we have to worry about: what is the Daemon about to do that requires the attention of the whole world?”

Sebeck glared at him again. “Oh, come on, Jon. My head hurts just from talking to you.”

“This didn’t happen by accident. Manipulation was Sobol’s specialty. These physical killings were to attract publicity. He’s issuing press releases.”

“Look, I know you feel you’re a Sobol expert, but what I need is a technology expert.”

“You’ll need both.”

“You’re biased, Jon.”

“Biased? How am I biased?”

“You’re too big a fan of this guy. Listen to yourself; you make Sobol out to be twenty feet tall.”

“Pete—”

“Sobol had brain cancer. You should see how thick his medical file is. Did it ever occur to you that he was just fucking crazy?”

“Does that make him less or more dangerous? I’m telling you, it doesn’t end here at his house. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you suggest we just let the Hummer prowl the neighborhood?”

“No, I’m saying the main investigation should branch off and try to discover Sobol’s master plan. We’re wasting time here. The master plan is everything.”

Sebeck pointed toward the sheriff’s mobile command center. “C’mon. Tell your theory to the Feds.”

In the mobile command trailer, Agent Decker sat motionless while a paramedic prepared a bandage for his recently stitched head wound. Decker was docile—perhaps sedated. Next to him stood another agent—taller, leaner, younger, and with an air of self-confidence. This was Steven Trear, the special agent in charge of the Los Angeles Division of the FBI, and he was carefully considering the expectant face of Peter Sebeck.

“Are you sure it was Sobol?”

Sebeck nodded. “I think it was the same voice from the computer video this morning, and in any event it phoned me just before the attack.”

Ross piped in. “And no other radio or cell phone traffic worked on the estate.”

Trear considered this, calculating the impact of this information on the case. He looked more serious the more he thought about it. He shot a glance at Decker. “We cut off electrical power to the house, right?”

Decker nodded slowly. “Yes, but the acoustic team says there’s a motor running in an outbuilding. Probably a generator.”

“Damn. We’ve got to take that house as soon as possible.”

Ross stepped past Sebeck and right up to Trear. “You’re not thinking of defying the Daemon’s demands, are you?”

“
Defying?”
He pointed at Ross but looked at Decker. “Who does he belong to?”

Decker was gingerly touching his bandaged head. “That’s Jon Ross. The consultant we brought in for questioning from Alcyone Insurance.”

Sebeck added, “He discovered the Daemon.”

“No, I didn’t.” Ross turned to Trear. “Look, just don’t storm the estate.”

“Sobol’s not in charge, Mr. Ross. He can make all the demands he wants. It won’t affect my plans in the least.”

“Agent Trear, I think this is another trap.”

Trear rolled his eyes. “No kidding. The whole house is a trap.” He looked to Sebeck. “Detective, please escort Mr. Ross out.”

Ross persisted. “I just don’t think the house contains critical information. It wouldn’t make sense—from a technological standpoint—for Sobol to store his plans there.”

“No one’s accusing Sobol of making sense, Mr. Ross.”

“I think this event was designed to announce the Daemon’s arrival to the world, and to set the stage for something to come. It’s finished here.”

Trear digested that for a moment. “And what makes you think this?”

“Because that’s the way Sobol thinks.”

“How would you know that? You’re not a psychologist.”

“I’ve played Sobol’s games. A lot. His AI succeeds because it doesn’t anticipate you—it
manipulates
you.”

Trear didn’t dismiss it immediately.

Nearby, Agent Straub glanced at his watch. “The press briefing was scheduled to start four minutes ago, sir.”

Trear looked to Ross again. “Why should I take you seriously, Mr. Ross? You’re a wandering computer consultant who doesn’t even keep a permanent address—and you play video games. Does that qualify you to deconstruct the motivations of Matthew Sobol?”

Ross couldn’t think of an immediate response. Put that way, it sounded bad even to him.

Trear continued. “I appreciate that you want to help. But what you see here is not our entire investigation. Sobol was under psychiatric care for nearly a year before his death. As we speak, I have criminal psychologists conferring with his doctors and reviewing thousands of pages of medical notes—all to build a profile of Sobol’s changing motivations as his illness progressed. His goals. His fears. We’ve used this approach with great success in countless cases—and usually with far less raw data to work with. So I think we know a lot more about Sobol’s motivations than you.”

He waited for his words to sink in. “This is a serious situation. Six good men died today—leaving behind wives and children. These were people Detective Sebeck, Agent Decker, and I knew. Others were maimed and injured. This isn’t a game. If we guess wrong, many more people could die—and not just here.”

Sebeck spoke up. “Agent Trear, I’ve seen Jon work. He helped me understand how Sobol killed Pavlos at the canyon scene, and he shut down the Daemon over at Alcyone Insurance when it first appeared. If it wasn’t for him, this situation might be even worse. I think somebody technical should listen to what Jon has to say.”

Trear nodded appreciatively.

Agent Straub cleared his throat. “Sir, if we want to make the evening news window, we’ve got to hold a press conference.”

Trear looked at him. “Straub, this scene is being covered 24/7 by every news channel on the planet. Don’t worry about the news window.” Trear turned away and pulled a pen from his suit jacket. He started scribbling on a memo pad on a nearby conference table. “Look…” He tore the page off and handed it to Sebeck. “Bring Mr. Ross down to CyberStorm’s corporate headquarters and ask for Agent Andrew Corland. He’s head of the FBI Cyber Division. They’re examining the CyberStorm corporate network and interviewing staff.”

Trear turned to Agent Decker. “We did a background check on Mr. Ross yesterday?”

Decker nodded. “Preliminary came up clean—except for the address.”

Ross leaned in. “I explained that.”

Trear silenced him with an upheld hand. “If you can convince Corland that you know something useful, I’ll be willing to listen to your theories. Failing that, I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

Sebeck folded and pocketed the slip of paper. “Fair enough. Thanks, Agent Trear. Agent Decker. C’mon, Jon.”

Ross resisted. “But you do believe this is a diversion?”

“Have Agent Corland call me, Mr. Ross.” Trear looked to Sebeck. “Sergeant, I know it’s a difficult time, but I need written reports from you as soon as possible. I want your account of the attack, the cell phone call, and I want those findings from the canyon scene.”

Sebeck nodded. He turned and pulled Ross out the trailer door and into the fading sunlight. Once outside, Sebeck and Ross squeezed past the gathering press corps and headed toward the estate fence line.

Ross pulled himself free. “I never even wanted to be involved in this mess in the first place.”

“Jon, you’ve got an unusual skill set. And we need your help. Larson was engaged to be married. He was barely twenty-five. How many more people like him are going to die?”

“The Feds are wasting their time. They won’t find anything on the CyberStorm network.”

Sebeck grabbed Ross’s arm again. “Look, I’m getting tired of hearing what we won’t find. Tell me where we
can
find something.”

“Sobol had the whole damned Internet to hide his plan. That’s what I would have done.”

“Don’t even go there.”

“It’s that type of thinking that’s going to limit us. We
must
put ourselves in his frame of mind.”

“Fuck his frame of mind.”

Ross met Sebeck’s stare for a moment or two, then looked away. “Sorry. I guess that is annoying. If someone could just get me back to my car, I’d like to get some rest.”

Sebeck’s stare softened. “I forgot the Feds grilled you all last night. I’ll take you back. No detours this time.”

They turned and faced a barrier of concrete highway dividers ringing Sobol’s estate. CALDOT crews had placed them over the last several hours. Both men looked into the distance. Beyond the estate fence, a quarter mile away, the black Hummer sat motionless in the center of the sweeping lawn amid crisscrossing tire tracks. Its whip antennae stood straight up, like the spines on some deadly insect.

A few deputy sheriffs were placed here and there along the road, sitting inside rugged-looking Forest Service crew trucks, engines idling. Sebeck guessed they were there to win a demolition derby should the Hummer make a break for it.

Sebeck turned to Ross. “You really think this is just the beginning, don’t you?”

Ross scanned the terrain. “I don’t know what I think anymore. Maybe Trear’s right.”

Sebeck took one last venomous look at the Hummer. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to your car.”