Spin (Captain Chase) Page 11

Fortunately, the roads are heavily sanded and salted, for the most part clear and dry. The military doesn’t close in a government shutdown, it’s business as usual unlike what I’ll face when I hit the NASA campus. It will be a foreboding winter obstacle course just like it was the last time we were furloughed in the middle of a blizzard.

  Flooded thoroughfares and marshland will be icy, many streets impassable. Most sidewalks and outdoor steps won’t have been touched by rock salt or a shovel, and a big fear is frozen pipes. A bigger one is diehard researchers illegally camping out in their offices, refusing to be furloughed. Every building will have to be checked repeatedly for flooding in addition to the usual risks of squatters and other violators.

  And I wonder how that’s going to work when I won’t want to be in Fran’s SUV or one of the Polaris ATVs. Not when I can be in my Tahoe, and how will I explain it to her anyway? Unlike our usual assigned vehicles, this one can’t be driven by anyone except me. I suppose I’ll say I’m test piloting it for the Secret Service because of the task force I’m on.

  Maybe I’ll hint that this is in conjunction with Dick’s militarized space interests, top secret ones I’m not allowed to discuss that include equipment I can’t share. I’m unsure how I’ll handle a lot of things when hardly anyone can know that Carme is around, and that we aren’t who we were or say we are.

  13

  I ASK ART for the latest updates on the crash in Norfolk, insisting on knowing if any victims have been identified or found.

  “Negative,” he replies through the speakers as images fill flat-screens across the dash.

  Videos knitted together from traffic and other cameras show the incident began as a high-speed chase a little over an hour ago, and I watch traffic parting like the Red Sea, motorists getting out of the way . . .

  Of a black Dodge Charger Hellcat customized with red powder-coated rims, the undercarriage and fog lamps glowing red, rocketing ahead of traffic on US 58, not far from Plum Point Park . . .

  Weaving in and out, closing in on a shark-gray Tahoe that looks identical to mine but with Maryland plates . . .

  Racing like NASCAR along a circuitous route on Brambleton Avenue . . .

  Then Colley, roaring past the Ronald McDonald House . . .

  Squealing left on Fairfax . . .

  Cutting through the campus of Eastern Virginia Medical School . . .

  Careening past Sentara Norfolk General Hospital . . .

  Back onto Brambleton . . .

  At the intersection of Riverview Avenue, a mushroom cloud of black smoke . . .

  A muffled BANG! BANG! BANG! as the Tahoe guns ahead . . .

  And the Hellcat bounces off the guardrail, exploding into a ball of fire . . .

  Coming to a stop in the westbound lane, engulfed in thick smoke and flames . . .

  “I’m guessing that was Carme’s Tahoe I just saw,” I say to ART, my heart pounding hard. “A Chase Car like mine only with Maryland plates. Faux ones. Am I right? She sped away it looks like?”

  “Not authorized,” he responds predictably.

  “She’s okay?”

  “Not authorized.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Not authorized.”

  “Yeah, yeah, already! But you’re not denying that she was driving the Tahoe. You and I both know she has morphing license plates same as I do. She will have changed the tags again by now,” I’m sure of it. “Do we have any information on the Hellcat?”

  “The Dodge Charger is stolen,” ART finally answers a question as I drive along the western edge of the peninsula that the Air Force shares with NASA.

  Following the shoreline of the same river I grew up on, I’m further informed that the hellish hot rod I saw likely belongs to a collector from Charlotte, North Carolina, here in town for the Tidewater International Car Show. Known for badass concept vehicles, the owner trucked his customized Dodge Charger Hellcat and Cadillac hearse to Hampton three days ago.

  Both award-winning concept vehicles are heavily publicized entries in this year’s special exhibition of driverless conveyances, ART gives me the lowdown. They were the most popular attractions Friday night and yesterday, the show drawing large crowds.

  “Obviously, the Hellcat, the hearse are the missing cars referenced on the local news earlier and in the BOLO Fran sent to me,” I let ART know as we pass tidy rows of brick base housing. “And the question is why someone might want to steal vehicles like that. Because I don’t think it’s for the money since it seems the Hellcat’s intended use was to commit homicide, to take someone out.”

  Based on the video I saw, there can be no doubt the goal was to force Carme to crash on her way to the OCME, and there’s no point in being coy about it. That’s what was supposed to happen.

  “Except the intended victim likely wasn’t my sister. It was me,” I explain to ART, who has no opinion. “And whoever decided to weaponize the autonomous muscle car didn’t give a hoot what happened to it.”

  It makes sense it was supposed to be me in the Tahoe, I decide, paralleling the airfield and its hangars, jets screaming overhead, the sun trying to peek through. Joan was expecting me to show up at the morgue, not Carme, who most people assume is off with the military somewhere, if they’re thinking of her at all.

  “I have a bad feeling that somehow Neva Rong caught wind of the plan,” I talk to ART as if he’s Fran. “My twin parading as me was supposed to outfox the slippery billionaire psycho. Only it would seem that Neva’s the one doing the outfoxing. I’m not so sure who’s really getting ambushed,” I add as jets frolic to beat the band, J-turning and barrel-rolling.

  I feel the guttural rumble of the T-38 supersonic trainer on its taxiway, so close I can see the helmeted pilot beneath his canopy as ART downloads updates fast and furiously. In short order, I’m getting a pretty good idea how such a ballsy auto heist could occur with no one having a clue.

  Apparently, it wasn’t noticed that the cars were missing until 8 o’clock this morning when staff started trickling in to get ready for today’s expected huge crowds. What’s known for a fact is that the coliseum was locked up tight as a drum by midnight, and there are no guards after hours.

  Perimeter cameras show that the coliseum’s loading bay door was mysteriously accessed at around 2:00 a.m. without setting off an alarm. What this suggests to me is that the security system was hacked, the parameters in the programming altered to ignore motion and other sensors.

  The massive roll-up door opened wide, and the Hellcat and hearse made a dash for it, driving themselves off the show floor, out into the empty early morning, the doors rolling shut behind them. And what a sight that would have been, every bit of it done remotely, no one calling the police for hours, waiting until the owner could be found, hoping he had an explanation, and he didn’t.

  “Has it been spotted?” I ask about the missing hearse, and on this part of Weyland Road there’s nothing but snowy open fields and dense woods pockmarked with animal tracks.

  “I have no data,” ART says as it occurs to me that neither missing vehicle is road legal and wouldn’t have a license plate.

  Not if they’re in and out of car shows, and I ask what theories are circulating as my thoughts continue ricocheting between Neva and Carme. I’m not surprised when ART answers that the police have no suspects.

  They have nothing to go on, only baseless rumors on social media claiming that the owner staged the theft for insurance purposes. But there’s no evidence of any such thing, and I don’t believe it for a minute.

  00:00:00:00:0

  “IT’S LOOKING LIKE the cars were stolen without the benefit of anybody showing up in person and doing the dirty work,” I say to ART. “Someone technically sophisticated, in other words.”

  As I’m saying
this, I’m shown more images from traffic videos, the supercharged Hellcat driving east on I-64 toward Norfolk in the wee morning hours, no license plates, growly, low slung, stealthily with red LEDs glowing.

  Most likely ART was able to find the Marvel-comic-bookish car by using image recognition software. In frustrating contrast, a late-model black Cadillac hearse with a landau top is going to be trickier if not near impossible. There are plenty of them around fitting that description, more than 300 registered to funeral homes in Hampton alone, ART gives me the statistics.

  The missing hearse could be anywhere. Many miles away or right under our noses, it was captured on security video at 0205 hours when it left the coliseum parking lot, disappearing into the windy darkness. Possibly it wisely navigated along a route that didn’t include traffic cameras, unlike the muscle car caught on film taking the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel across the Chesapeake Bay into Norfolk at 0235 hours.

  Soon after, it’s recorded again, flicking off its lights, turning into the deserted Plum Point Park on the water. There’s no video of it turning into the parking lot, which the city would have plowed because only federal workers are furloughed. Presumably this is where the Hellcat stayed unnoticed until an hour and a half ago when it reemerged onto the Elizabeth River Trail.

  Minutes later it was flying along US 58 in pursuit of the Tahoe Carme was driving, and someone sure as heck knew she was coming. Or that I was, and most of all I’m relieved and grateful because she may have caused the fiery accident but she didn’t burn up in it. No way my sister was driving that stolen car, and I’m fairly certain I know what she did to end an insane chase that lasted a total of 3.4 minutes.

  Carme did what Carme does best, getting in the last word, leaving a parting shot. In this instance with the SMOKR I’m guessing, as I recall the thick black mushroom cloud. A real mood killer if you’re trying to see where you’re going, it also could interfere with radio waves and cell signals, which would be problematic in some driverless vehicles, although I suspect that’s not what happened to the Hellcat.

  I have a feeling the three loud bangs I heard were fired from a RIP or a WASH, and it would make sense resorting to the rear built-in M16, the water disrupter, one or the other. Possibly both, taking out tires and causing an explosion.

  “Carme knows that if even the smallest piece of shrapnel pierces a gas tank, it’s all she wrote,” I announce out loud.

  I’m finding myself periodically glancing at the empty passenger’s seat as if ART might be in it. As if I might be getting daffy.

  “And since other motorists had slowed way down to get out of the way, it was relatively safe to let her rip, so to speak,” I add, driving past the Air Force base golf course, brown grass and sand pits exposed where the snow has blown and drifted.

  I don’t think the message could be clearer, I decide. Someone (I know who I vote for) was tipped off that Carme (or me, the more likely story) would be headed to the medical examiner’s office this afternoon to intercept Neva Rong.

  “I guess she somehow found out the plan and knows I’ve got a new truck,” I add, increasingly suspicious that she’s picking up where she left off.

  It’s a serious concern that makes me nervous for myself and everyone around me. Not so long ago, Neva’s response to my interferences included a tracking device, a hitman, cement boots and other body-disposal accoutrements. Not to mention I’ve seen what she’s capable of, envisioning the deep furrows in Vera Young’s neck, her dead body drenched in bleach and strung up from a door.

  “Well, I’ll take that as a yes,” I continue to goad ART into giving me the intel I want. “Carme has this exact same truck even if you won’t admit it. The question is who Neva was trying to take out. Me? Or my sister pretending to be me? What exactly does Neva know about the Gemini project beyond the fact that there’s a GOD chip? And it’s missing. And that Vera may have had it last.”

  But ART’s not about to fall for any of my tricks or pressures any more than Mom ever has. He answers nothing as data comes at me from every direction, and it’s all I can do to focus on any one thing at a time. Although I have to say I’m more acclimated than I was. At least I’m reasonably adept so far at handling my armored SUV on slippery roads, and not making a mess of multitasking like I did when I was leaving Dodd Hall.

  “I would expect that everything Carme and I have is identical, our vehicles, our equipment,” I keep pushing. “And when she needs camouflage, which is most of the time, she morphs everything about her Chase Car to be the same as mine.”

  But ART isn’t taking the bait, programmed not to share certain information no matter what I say.

  “Do you know if Neva Rong is behind the auto heist?” I then ask, because it would be just like her to hack into a highly publicized car show and swipe autonomous vehicles right off the floor.

  “There are no suspects,” ART’s unhelpful answer, and suddenly I’m reconnected to the OCME’s security video feed.

  I’m watching Neva inside the lobby where she’s helped herself to every newspaper she could find. Using them to cover the sofa and area around it, she makes sure she doesn’t come in contact with furniture or flooring, fashioning her own unspoiled island unto herself in this dirty unfair world she helps create.

  “Signal restored,” I tell ART what he already knows.

  Ranger must be in the area, and I check my cameras and side-view mirrors as if I might catch my mobile hotspot following us. Nope, nothing there but partly cloudy skies, empty except for fighter jets, and out of habit I head toward the Air Force base back gate.

  There’s no sign of the basketball-size PONG that I shouldn’t be seeing anyway since he’s in GHOST mode following from above. Extending the range, the flying orb has restored the link to the medical examiner’s office in Norfolk, and I’m watching Neva Rong dig inside her oversize black crocodile bag . . .

  Retrieving a small gold tub of something expensive and pink that ART zooms in on . . .

  She dabs on Iridesse Kiss lip balm . . .

  Before unscrewing the cap from some other pricy potion that she drips into her palm. One pale-blue drop at a time, handwritten on the eyedropper bottle’s label is (C14H21NO11)n . . .

  The chemical composition of hyaluronic acid, used to hydrate the skin, reduce fine wrinkles and promote healing, ART informs me. I watch Neva rub the serum into her wrists, hands, her neck and décolletage. She disgustingly primps and moisturizes inside the grimmest of waiting rooms with its attempts at cozy furniture and pleasant printed landscapes from state surplus, its thoughtful placing of fake plants and silk flowers.

  Outdated magazines with torn-off mailing labels are fanned out on a faux mahogany table between the Virginia and US flags. A clunky old flat-screen TV silently plays soothing nature scenes in a glitchy loop that at the moment is caught on a school of salmon almost leaping as they swim upstream.

  Never completely in or out of the water, never getting anywhere, and boy do I know the feeling as I approach the sturdy redbrick guard gate I always use when going back and forth between the Air Force base and NASA. All but one lane is blocked with tire shredders, sawhorses, water-filled bright-orange barricades, and concrete blast barriers.

  It’s just my sorry luck that military police officer Crockett steps outside the booth.

  He holds up a hand to halt my vehicle, sort of a weird mixture of a stop sign and a wave, staring intensely at me.

  “Okay, now you’ve gone too far,” under my breath as he approaches, and he can’t be serious.

  “I’m sorry,” ART says through the speakers. “I don’t understand . . .”

  “Not talking about you, I’m talking about him, a real first-class jerk,” I reply, using my ventriloquist trick, barely moving my lips. “Don’t say anything. He can’t know about you. Nobody can,” even as I reali
ze how inane it sounds. “And nothing in the displays, please,” and every one of them blinks out.

  I’m back to monitoring the OCME live feed and other data in the lenses of my SPIES and PEEPS as I was doing earlier. And I roll down my window before MP Crockett can rap on it with his knuckles.

  14

  IN CAMOUFLAGE and beret, an M4 carbine slung across his chest, a Beretta 9mm on his hip, he’s about to abuse his authority as usual, I can feel it coming.

  “No way,” I mutter, and it’s one thing to harass me when I’m entering the Air Force base but quite another when I’m leaving.

  MP Crockett doesn’t have the right, not that he ever really does, and I shift my truck into park, figuring I’m going to be sitting here for a while.

  “What’s the problem this time, Officer?” I ask, and he floors me by grinning, unpleasantly bringing to mind a Cheshire cat or an opossum.

  “You’re not too funny!” he replies with his weird backward sarcasm, saying the opposite of whatever it is he means, and I’m baffled. “I’m not wondering what you’re up to, Captain,” and it’s the first time he’s ever smiled, winked at me or acknowledged my rank.

  In the three years I’ve worked for NASA, he’s given me no respect or credit, going out of his way to look for expired stickers, cracked windshields, glass too darkly tinted. It’s common for him to order me out of my truck, taking his time searching it with a K-9 or a mirror, and that would be an unfortunate development right about now, it occurs to me.

  Reminded I’m no longer in my Silverado, I wouldn’t want him finding the M16s, or the water disrupter and flamethrower. But he doesn’t seem inclined to give me his usual crap, a spring to his step and a gleam in his eye that weren’t there before. He seems a little self-conscious and shy, kind of twitchy and nervous, now that I’m noticing. And I know all the symptoms when someone’s been exposed to my sister, catching her lovebug as Mom’s always put it.