Total Control (12 page)

The man was large, but his muscle had long since started to turn to fat. Jason exploded into him like a battering ram, smashing the older man flat against the wall. They briefly struggled, but the far stronger Jason was able to hurl the man around until he collided face first with the cinder-block wall. One more serious head thrust into the wall and two vicious punches to the man's kidney's and he slumped to the cold floor unconscious.

Jason picked up the gun and ran through the open doorway. With his free hand he scooped up his laptop and cell phone. Stopping for a moment to gauge his surroundings, he spotted another doorway and, pausing to listen for any sound, he hurried through it.

He stopped and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He swore under his breath. He was in the same warehouse, or one identical to it. They must have been driving in circles. He cautiously slipped down the steps and onto the main floor. The limo was nowhere in sight. He suddenly heard a sound from the direction he had just come. He raced to the overhead door, searching frantically for the switch to open it. His head jerked around as he heard running footsteps.

He ran across the warehouse to the opposite end. Hidden in a corner behind some fifty-gallon drums, he carefully placed the gun on the floor and clicked open his laptop.

The laptop was a sophisticated model complete with a built-in phone modern. He turned on the computer's power switch and used a short cable housed in his laptop's case to hook his computer's modern to his cellular phone. Sweat poured from his brow as the machine took a few seconds to warm up. Using his mouse, he clicked through the necessary function screens and then, in the darkness, his fingers guided by strong familiarity with the keys, he typed his message.

So intent was he on sending it, Jason did not hear the footsteps behind him. He began to type in the e-mail address of the recipient.

He was sending the message to his own America Online mailbox.

Unfortunately, like people who couldn't remember their own phone number because they never called it, Jason, who never sent e-mail to himself, didn't have his e-mail address programmed into his laptop.

He did remember it, but typing it cost him a few precious seconds.

While his finger hovered over the keys, a light flashed over him, a strong arm locked around his neck.

Jason managed to click on the send command. The message leaped electronically off the screen. For one brief moment. Then a hand slashed in front of his face, grabbed the laptop from him, the cell phone dangling precariously in the air at the end of the short cable. Jason could see the thick fingers hitting the necessary keys to cancel the e-mail.

Jason swung a short, brutal punch that connected with his assailant's jaw. The grip relaxed on the laptop and Jason was able to snatch it and the cell phone away. He slammed a foot into his attacker's abdomen and raced off, leaving the man face down on the floor. Unfortunately, he left the 9mm behind as well.

Heading toward a distant corner of the warehouse, Jason now could hear racing feet coming from all directions. There would be no escape for him, that was clear. But he could still do something.

He dodged behind some metal stairs, dropped to his knees and started typing. A shout nearby made him jerk his head up. His flying fingers, so accurate now, failed him as his right index finger hit the wrong keystroke when typing the recipient's e-mail address. He began typing the message, the sweat pouring down his face, stinging his eyes. His breath came in big clumps, his neck ached from the stranglehold. It was so dark, he couldn't even see the keyboard. He alternated between staring at the tiny electronic images on the screen to desperately scanning the warehouse as the shouts and running feet came nearer and nearer to his location.

He didn't realize that the small amount of light thrown off by the computer screen was like a laser show in the dark warehouse. The sound of men running hard toward him barely ten feet away made him cut short his message. Jason hit the send button and waited for the confirming signal. Then he deleted both the file he had sent and the name of the recipient. He did not look at the e-mail address as his finger held down the delete key. He then slid the laptop and cell phone across the floor and underneath the steps until they stopped far back in the corner. He had time to do nothing more as multiple searchlights hit him squarely in the face. He slowly stood up, his breathing heavy but his eyes defiant.

A few minutes later the limo pulled out of the warehouse. Jason was slumped over in the backseat, several lacerations and deep bruises on his face, his breathing irregular. Kenneth Scales had the laptop open and was cursing loudly as he stared at the small screen, powerless to reverse what had occurred minutes earlier. In a fit of rage he tore Jason's cell phone free from the cable and repeatedly smashed it against the door of the limo until it dropped to the floor in jagged pieces. Then he pulled a small secured-line cellular phone from his inner jacket pocket and punched in a number. Scales spoke slowly into the phone. Archer had contacted someone, sent some message. There were a number of possible recipients and they would all have to be checked out and appropriately dealt with. But that potential problem would just have to keep. Other matters would now demand his time.

Scales clicked off and looked over at Jason. When Jason managed to look up, the pistol's muzzle was almost against his forehead.

"Who, Jason? Who'd you send the message to?"

Jason managed to catch his breath as he gripped his painfully bruised ribs. "No way. Not in a million years, pal."

Scales pushed the muzzle flush against Jason's head.

"Pull the trigger, you asshole!" Jason screamed.

Scales's finger started to press down on the Glock's trigger, but then he stopped and roughly pushed Jason back against the seat.

"Not yet, Jason. Didn't I tell you? You've got another gig to do."

Jason stared up helplessly at him as Scales smiled wickedly.

Special Agent Raymond Jackson's eyes took in the area with one efficient sweep. He moved into the room, shutting the door behind him. Jackson shook his head in quiet amazement. Arthur Lieberman had been described to him as a fortune-builder with a career several decades long. This hovel did not conform to that description. He checked his watch. The forensics team would be here shortly to conduct an in-depth search. Although it seemed unlikely that Arthur Lieberman personally knew who had blown him out of a peaceful Virginia sky, on investigations of this magnitude, every possibility had to be explored.

Jackson went into the tiny kitchen and quickly determined that Arthur Lieberman did not cook or eat here. There were no dishes or pans in any of the cupboards. The only visible occupant of the refrigerator was a lightbulb. The stove, though old, showed no signs of recent use. Jackson scanned the other areas of the living room and then walked into the small bathroom. With his gloved hand he carefully edged open the door to the medicine cabinet. It contained the usual toiletries, nothing of significance. Jackson was about to close the mirrored door when his eye caught the small bottle edged in between the toothpaste and the deodorant. The prescription label had dosage and refill information and the physician who had prescribed it. Agent Jackson was unfamiliar with the name of the drug. Jackson had three kids and was an informal expert on prescription and over-the-counter drugs for a host of ailments. He wrote down the name of the medication and closed the door to the medicine cabinet.

Lieberman's sleeping chamber was small, the bed little more than a cot. A small desk sat against the wall nearest the window. After examining the closet, Jackson turned his attention to the desk.

Several photos on the desk showed two men and one woman ranging in age from what looked to be late teens ro mid-twenties. The photos appeared several years old. Lieberman's kids, Jackson quickly concluded.

Three drawers confronted him. One was locked. It took Jackson only a few seconds to open the locked drawer. Inside was a bundle of handwritten letters held together with a rubber band. The handwriting was careful and precise, the contents of the letters decidedly romantic. The only strange part was that they were all unsigned.

Jackson muddled over that one for a moment, then replaced the letters in the drawer. He spent a few more minutes looking around until a knock on the door announced the arrival of the forensics unit.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

During the time Sidney had been alone in her house, she had explored every crevice of the place, driven by a force that she could not come close to identifying. She sat for hours in the small window seat in the kitchen, her mind racing through her years of marriage. Every detail of those years, even moments of relative insignificance, came surging up from the depths of her subconscious. At times her mouth curled in amusement as she recalled a particularly funny memory.

Those instances were brief, however, and were always followed by wracking sobs as the realization that there would be no more fun times with Jason came crashing down on her.

Finally stirring, she rose and walked up the stairs, drifted slowly down the hallway and entered Jason's small study. She looked around at the spare contents, then sat down in front of the computer.

She moved her hand across the glass screen. Jason had loved computers ever since she had known him. She was computer functional, but, aside from word processing and checking her e-mail, her knowledge of the world of computer hardware and software was extremely limited.

Jason did quite a bit of correspondence by e-mail and normally checked his electronic mailbox every day. Sidney hadn't checked it since the plane crash. She decided it was time to do so. Many of Jason's friends had probably sent messages. She turned the computer on and watched the screen as a series of numbers and words trooped across that were, in large part, meaningless to her. The only one she did recognize was available memory. There was a lot of it. The system had been customized for her husband and was bursting with power.

She stared at the available memory number. With a jolt she realized that the last three digits, 7, 3 and 0, constituted the date of Jason's birthday, July 30. A deep breath prevented a quick relapse into tears. She slid open the desk drawer and idly fumbled through its contents. As an attorney she well knew the number of documents and procedures that would have to be gone through as Jason's estate was settled. Most of their property was jointly held, but there were still many legal hoops. Everyone eventually had to face such things, but she couldn't believe she had to confront them so soon.

Her fingers sifted over papers and miscellaneous office paraphernalia in the drawer, closing' over one object, which she pulled out.

Although she was unaware of the fact, she was holding the card Jason had thrust there before leaving for the airport. She looked at it closely. It looked like a credit card, but stamped on it was the name "Triton Global," followed by "Jason Archer" and, finally, the words "Code Restricted--Level 6." Her brow furrowed. She had never seen it before. She assumed it was some type of security pass, although it did not have her husband's photo on it. She slipped it into her pocket. The company would probably want it back.

She accessed America Online and was greeted by the computerized voice announcing that mail was indeed present in their electronic mailbox. As she had thought, it contained numerous messages from their friends. She read through them, crying freely.

Finally she lost all desire to complete the task and started to exit out of the computer. She jumped as another e-mail suddenly flashed on the screen; it was addressed to [email protected], which was her husband's e-mail address. In the next instant it was gone, like a mischievous inspiration scurrying through one's head before disappearing.

Sidney hit some function keys and quickly checked the computerized mailbox again. Her brow tightened into a sea of wrinkles when she discovered it was completely empty. Sidney continued to stare at the screen. A creeping sensation was pushing her to the conclusion that she had just imagined the entire episode. It had happened so damn quickly. She rubbed at her painful eyes and sat there for another few minutes, anxiously waiting to see if the performance would be repeated, although she had no idea of its meaning. The screen remained blank.

Moments after Jason Archer had re-sent his message, another e-mail was announced by the computerized voice saying, "You've got mail." This time the message held and was duly logged into the mailbox. However, this computer mailbox was not located at the old stone and brick house, nor was it at Sidney's desk at the offices of Tyler, Stone. And, currently, there was no one home to read it. The message would just have to keep.

Sidney finally rose and left the study. For some reason the sudden flash across the computer screen had given her an absurd hope, as if Jason were somehow communicating to her, from wherever he had gone after the jet had plunged into the ground. Stupid! she told herself.

That was impossible.

An hour later, after another episode of wrenching grief, her body alliterated, she gripped a picture of Amy. She had to take care of herself. Amy needed her. She opened a can of soup, turned on the stove and a few minutes later ladled out a small quantity of beef barley into a bowl and carried it over to the kitchen table. She managed to ingest a few spoonfuls while she looked at the walls of the kitchen that Jason had planned to paint that weekend after much nagging from her. Everywhere she turned, a new memory, a fresh pang of guilt, battered her. How could it not? This place contained as much of them, as much of him, as was possible for an inanimate shell to hold.

She could feel the hot soup passing through her system, but her body still shuddered as though it were almost out of fuel. She grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator and drank straight from the container until the shakes stopped. Yet even as the physical side started to calm down, she could feel the inner forces building once again.