Rogue Operator (5 page)

Lonely
because whatever was happening at the lab, hadn’t interfered with their annual
fishing trip. Jason and Carl, along with their bachelor friend Phil, had still
left as planned, not due back for another week. No cellphones, no computers, no
communications technology of any kind.

“Call
the local sheriff if there’s a problem,” he had said every year they went. The
number sat on the fridge downstairs, under an I Love Robots magnet that had
come with the Roomba he had purchased. She had watched him demonstrate it, then
promptly vacuumed properly. She would have thought he had been hurt by her lack
of interest, but she knew he had bought it for only one purpose.

To tear
it apart.

Within a
week he had reprogrammed it to tie into the house’s wi-fi network, and as a
joke for his friends, he could send a command from his iPhone, which would
activate a servo on his beer fridge, pushing the door open, which would then
allow a ramp to drop. The robot would whistle like R2D2 and promptly deliver
six ice cold beers to wherever the phone was located. It would then return to
the fridge, the ramp would rise, and the door would close.

The roar
of laughter the first time it had been demonstrated left her beaming. She loved
to hear her husband laugh. It didn’t seem to happen often enough. She was an
elementary school teacher and loved to laugh, the children she taught every day
bringing an immense amount of joy into her life. But at home, laughter seemed a
little sparse compared to at work. When their son Charlie was growing up, there
was plenty, but now he was a teenager and didn’t seem to laugh as much around
his parents. Her husband was usually happy, and would laugh when they watched a
movie or TV show, or when they had company and a good joke was told, or with
her at the dinner table or in bed when she told him about her day and something
one of the little rascals had done at school.

But he
rarely initiated the humor.
The curse of marrying a scientist.
She knew
he was an egghead, and loved him for it. His brain was what had attracted her.
She loved smart men. She loved Carl. But lately he had been distant. Whatever
had happened at the lab had drummed most of his humor from the house.

She performed
a quick toilette, then stepped back into the bedroom, flopping face down on the
bed. On his side of the bed. She inhaled, hard, drawing in his scent from the
pillow.

I
miss you. I miss the
old
you.

Which
had her concerned. Could their marriage survive? She thought so, but it would
be difficult. And that was based on an assumption. That things would get
better. That whatever was going on at the lab would work itself out, and they
could move on.

If
only I knew what was bothering him! If only he would talk to me about his work!

 But it
was forbidden. She had no idea what he was working on, but she had the sense
Maggie did. When she had talked to her about Carl, about how he had changed
over the past few months, she had said, “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m
terrified that they might have actually succeeded.”

She had
pressed Maggie on it, demanded she tell her what she meant, but Maggie had
laughed it off—uncomfortably Phoebe thought—and nothing more was said. The
conversation moved on to kids and life, and the topic of their husbands’ work
and their state of mind, never came up again.

The door
opened with a click and a creak.

“Charlie!
I’m not dressed!” she yelped, grabbing her pillow and curling up into a ball as
she tried to cover her naked form. Looking at the door to admonish her son, she
gasped, then screamed. A man stood in the doorway, all dressed in black, a face
mask covering his features.

She
reached for the phone and the man quickly strode around the bed to stop her.
She rolled several times to her side of the bed, closest the door, and hit the
floor running.

“Charlie!
Get out of the house! Run!” she screamed as she raced toward the stairs, her
mind a jumble of disjointed thoughts. Who was the man? Why was he dressed as if
he were something from a movie? Was he alone? Why did she have to lie naked on
the bed today of all days? Where was Charlie? Was he okay? Who had been at the
fridge? Was Charlie even home?

Her feet
slid on the floor and she grabbed the railing, rushing down the first few steps
and turning the corner for the final run. She cried out as another man was coming
up the stairs toward her, and with the thud of footsteps behind her, she knew
there was no going back.

Her
kickboxing classes popped to mind, and she snapped out her right leg at the
knee, her heel nailing the surprised man squarely on the jaw. He tumbled
backward and hit the floor with a grunt. She continued down the stairs and
jumped over him, but as she cleared his stunned form, she felt an iron grip on
her ankle that stopped her dead, sending her crashing to the floor. She writhed
and kicked, and a blow to the man’s head with her free foot was enough to break
his grip for a moment.

She
yanked away as the second man cleared the last few steps. She jumped to her
feet, rushing toward Carl’s office. Bursting through the door, she slammed it
shut, pressed the button on the door knob, locking the door, then reached up to
a piece of wood protruding from the bookshelf that lined the wall by the door.

The
bookshelf was solid oak, integrated directly into the wall, and had been
designed by her husband. This was their mini-panic room. It wasn’t meant to
hole up for a long time, it was meant to delay. But it would only work if she
could pull the damned wood out. She yanked as hard as she could, but it
wouldn’t budge. She screamed at it, and it finally gave slightly, and with a
better grip, she was able to pull it. She pulled the three by three inch thick
wood across the door and slid it into a slot on the bookshelf that continued on
the other side of the door.

Somebody
tried the door, the rattling of the doorknob sending her own hands shaking even
more than they already were. She grabbed the second piece of wood, at waist
height, and yanked on it, it coming easier. As she slid it across the door,
there was a loud bang, and the door bowed inward. A yelp escaped her and she
lost her grip on the bar. It sagged toward the floor, but she grabbed it and
resumed pulling. Just as she was about to slide it in the slot there was a
tremendous thud against the door, and the lock seemed to burst into shards of
wood as the frame cracked. The door pushed inward, but was halted at the top by
the bar already in place, and smacked against the one she held. Somebody pushed
on the door again, and she stood, momentarily stunned, terrified at what might
happen when they got in.

Finish
your job!

She
snapped back to reality and shoved the bar into its slot, and dropped to her
knees, yanking the third and final bar from the left side of the door, across
the frame and into the slot, then collapsed backward onto her behind, staring
at the door as those on the other side hammered away at it, trying to break it
down to no avail, the three pieces of sturdy oak, braced on either side,
protecting her for the moment.

For
the moment.

Catching
her breath, her mind immediately focused on Charlie and where he might be, if
he were okay. She silently prayed this was one of the days he moseyed on his
way home, and just didn’t have the courtesy to call her.

Please
be one of those days.

Somebody
slammed against the door again. Hard. The entire bookshelf shook, but the
custom brace held. She jumped to her feet, grabbed a cardigan from the back of
her husband’s chair and pulled it on as she reached for the phone. Grabbing the
receiver, she dialed 9-1-1 and waited.

The
click of the connection, and the operator’s voice sent a wave of relief through
her.

Then the
line went dead.

Her
chest became tight and the walls began to close in. She dropped into Carl’s
chair, hung up the phone, and tried again.

Dead.

She
threw the phone on the desk, tears welling in her eyes as she looked at the
windows, the outdoors only feet away, beckoning her, but she knew there was no
way to open them. They were sealed, with reinforced glass and a bullet-resistant
laminate.

If
only I could get a message out!

She
looked at the computer. The computer with a password she had no clue as to what
it could be, and slammed her fists into the keyboard.

“Mom?”

The
voice was scared. Terrified. Trembling.

And at
the door.

Her
heart slammed into her ribcage as adrenaline fueled her to her feet. She looked
for a weapon, a method of communication, anything.

But she
found nothing.

“Charlie,
is that you? Are you okay?”

“Open
the door, Mrs. Shephard, or we’ll kill the boy.”

“What do
you want with us?” she screamed, dropping to her knees. “Why don’t you just
leave us alone?”

“Open
the door, Mrs. Shephard. You have ten seconds.”

The
countdown, supplied by her own mind, pounded in her head, and before she knew,
it was already at five. She jumped across the floor, pulling at the bottom
brace, sliding it out of the way.

“Time’s
up,” she heard the voice say.

“Wait!”
she screamed. “I’m opening it, I’m opening it!”

She slid
the second piece of oak out of the way, and reached for the third.

“I’m
getting impatient, Mrs. Shephard.”

She
grabbed the final piece and slid it out of the way.

“It’s
open!” she cried, reaching for the handle.

The door
burst open, smacking her outstretched hand, batting it away as if an unwanted
advance. She yelped in pain and stepped back, startled, as the man, still
masked, entered the room. He raised his weapon and fired as she heard her son,
standing just behind her assassin, scream in horror.

Ogden Police Department

2186 Lincoln Ave, Ogden, Utah

Detective Jamie Conway sat in the female locker room and took a long
swig from her water bottle, quenching a thirst that had been growing over
hours. She always took care to have a water bottle in the car when out on
calls, but they had been out all day. Things like this just didn’t happen in Ogden.
Murders? Yup. They had them, and she loved working them, bringing the bastard
or bastards to justice. They were usually domestic or gang related.

But this
was different.

A mother
and her two young kids forced into the back of a semi-trailer, in broad
daylight, then taken by helicopter to parts unknown. It had all the hallmarks
of something out of a Hollywood movie, but it had happened in her town, on her
watch. She tried to picture how horrible it must have been for the poor woman
knowing she could do nothing to protect her children, but gave up, unable to
imagine having a bond so close with anyone. She wasn’t a mother, wasn’t even
sure if she wanted to be.

Certainly
not now.

Beyond
trying to establish a career, she was chronically single. She knew she was
attractive, which seemed to attract the wrong guys. The pretty boys who cared
about their looks more than their relationships, the jocks who cared more about
their bodies than their brains. Most men seemed to be looking for a piece of
eye candy for their arm, rather than a long-term relationship. And those that
she was attracted to, ran away, in fear they were out of her league.

She took
another drink, her shoulders slumped, arms dangling between her legs, head
down, eyes closed. She focused on her breathing, and the sounds in the locker
room, the shift change just beginning with the uniforms, the chatter of
excitement and exhaustion of a day finished, an evening shift beginning. Her
thoughts drifted to the beginning of her career in Seattle as a regular
uniform. It had been exciting, exhausting, terrifying, but immensely rewarding.

Until
her first brush with a true killer.

That was
pure terror.

Gangbangers
firing their weapons with their eyes closed half the time, their weapons at an
angle because that’s how their favorite rapper fired his in the music videos,
were one thing. They were just idiots who killed indiscriminately. Did they
deserve to be caught and locked up for life? Absolutely. But she was never
scared of them.

But a
true killer. That was something completely different. A true killer targeted
someone. For a reason. And there was nothing preventing
you
from being that
target. And it was terrifying. Because a true killer could almost never be
stopped. A true killer could be caught, but not before that first victim was
already dead. Because a true killer didn’t announce himself with a Honda Civic
and soup can muffler, blaring the latest gangsta rap from speakers meant for a
house, with a car full of buddies and witnesses, their arms and heads dangling
out the rear windows rolled only halfway down because they were too stupid to
figure out how to override the child safety mechanism while they had the two
foot high rear spoiler installed.

A true
killer was methodical. Deliberate. With a purpose.

And her
first encounter had terrified her so much, she had wanted to become a detective
from the moment those who took over the investigation had arrived. She wanted
to be in on the action, in on the hunt, rather than providing crowd control.

She
drained the bottle, tilting it up high, sticking her bottom lip out, raising
her head as little as possible. Her neck hurt. She needed a massage. She needed
a man to give her a massage. She tingled at the thought. That was one thing
that was great about Seattle. If you wanted to, you could hook up with someone,
and just have casual, meaningless sex whenever you wanted. In a small town like
this, she was too recognizable. Then again it wasn’t like she was promiscuous
back in Seattle. She could count on two thumbs how many times she had had sex
with someone she wasn’t in a relationship with.