Lock In

  “Because he didn’t plan on keeping her after he or Schwartz was done using her,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Tony said. “And now you know why she was carrying around a grenade.”

  “So she was aware the whole time,” Vann said. “Aware and awake and unable to stop her body from doing anything.”

  “That’s right,” Tony said. “And no way to get the client out of her head.”

  “Fuck,” Vann said and turned away for a second. Tony looked over at me, confused. Later, I mouthed.

  “You okay?” I asked Vann.

  “If we go in to wheel out Hubbard’s body after all this is done, I’m going to need you to watch me very closely,” Vann said. “Otherwise I’m going to punt that asshole hard right in the balls.”

  I grinned very widely. “That’s a promise,” I said.

  Vann turned back to Tony. “What’s the second thing,” she said.

  “Once I figured out how Hubbard hacked Rees’s brain I went back into Sani’s brain to see what things I missed before because I didn’t have context,” Tony said. “And I got this.” He scrolled very quickly through the code until he came up with a sizable chunk of it.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know at first,” Tony said. “Because it didn’t make any sense. What I think is that it repurposes part of the neural network into a relay.”

  “A what?” Vann said.

  “I know, right?” Tony said. “It’s a transmitter. It transmits the Integrator’s data signal, but not into the network. Instead it mimics the network.”

  “Does it have to be the Integrator’s data signal?” Vann asked.

  “What do you—” Tony stopped, apparently getting it. “Oooooooh,” he said.

  “What?” I said. I was the only one in my own liminal space entirely left out.

  “Fucking Hubbard,” Vann said. “We were asking why Johnny Sani was trying to integrate with Nicholas Bell. He wasn’t. He was acting as a goddamned relay station for Hubbard.”

  I thought about it for a minute. “Then that means that when you were interrogating Bell—”

  “It was never Bell,” Vann said. “It was Hubbard. It was always Hubbard. The bastard’s been playing us right from the start.”

  “To get close to Cassandra Bell,” I said.

  “Yes,” Vann said.

  “For what purpose?” I asked.

  “You’ve been following the news, right?” Vann snapped. “Rumor is, there’s a march on Sunday. Imagine what happens to that march when Cassandra Bell is killed by her own brother, who then spouts some sort of anti-Haden bullshit. D.C. is going to burn down to the ground.”

  “Right, but what point does that serve?” I asked. “Why start a riot?”

  “To tank the market,” Tony said.

  We both turned to him again.

  “I told you I follow the sector,” Tony said. “It’s how I stay employed. The Haden-related companies are already trying to merge or exit the sector because of Abrams-Kettering. Investors are already offloading their stocks. A full-scale riot in D.C. will scare the shit out of these companies and all their investors. They’ll flee the scene. And then Accelerant can pick and choose which companies to snap up and which to let die. It’ll be lauded for stabilizing the sector when what it’s really doing is sniping its competitors in the head. They’ll save billions on their merger with Sebring-Warner alone.”

  “But what’s the point?” I said. “Abrams-Kettering is gutting all these companies’ profits. There’s no gravy train anymore. You said so yourself.”

  “You know who AOL are, right?” Tony said.

  “What?” Vann said.

  “AOL,” Tony said. “Information services company around the turn of the century. Made billions connecting people online through their phones. A ‘dial-up’ service. Was one of the biggest companies in the world. Then people stopped using their phone lines to get online and AOL shrank. But for years it still made billions in profit, because even though the dial-up sector had died, there were still millions of customers who kept their dial-up service. Some were old people who didn’t want to change. Some were people who kept the service as a backup. Some probably just forgot they subscribed and when they remembered, AOL made it too hard to unsubscribe to bother.”

  “Lovely story,” Vann said. “And?”

  “And, when all is said and done, there are still more Hadens in the U.S. than people who live in the state of Kentucky. On average another thirty thousand people a year contract the disease and experience lock in. They’re not going away. Even a shrunken market can make a lot of money, if you milk it. And Hubbard’s the one to milk it.”

  “Because he’s a Haden himself,” I said. “He’s one of us.”

  “That’s right,” Tony said. “That’s what swooping in and saving the Agora is about. Establishing goodwill among Hadens.”

  “Once he has that, he can roll over every other company, because he’s already got every single Haden as a customer,” I said. “He’ll use the Agora as leverage.”

  “Right again,” Tony said. “And then Accelerant will be doing two things. Using the money he’s raking in from Hadens to diversify—even now Haden-related companies are the minority of its portfolio—and getting ready for the day the FDA says neural networks and threeps aren’t just medical devices for Haden use only. Because that’s the real end game. Hubbard’s looking to the day when everyone’s got a threep, everyone’s on the Agora, and no one ever has to feel old again.”

  “That’s why Hubbard could spend a billion dollars on something he’d never take to market,” I said.

  “And why he’ll spend a bunch of money now on companies that look like sucker bets,” Tony said. “He’s not looking at the shrinking Haden market. He’s looking at the market that’s coming after that. The market he’s going to make. The market he’s locking in right now.”

  “You really think that’s what happening here,” Vann said.

  “Let me put it this way, Agent Vann,” Tony said. “If you two don’t arrest him this weekend, on Monday I’m going out and putting everything I own into Accelerant stock.”

  Vann stood there for a moment, thinking. Then she turned to me. “Options,” she said.

  “Seriously?” I said. “We’re doing this now?”

  “It’s still your first week,” Vann said.

  “It’s been a busy week,” I said.

  “And I want your thoughts, all right?” Vann said. “I’m not just asking you to have a goddamn teachable moment. All this affects you. This is about you. And people like you. Tell me what you want to do, Chris.”

  “I want to go after the son of a bitch,” I said. “Hubbard and Schwartz both.”

  “You want to arrest them,” Vann said.

  “I do,” I said. “But not just yet.”

  “Explain,” Vann said.

  I smiled at her instead and looked over to Tony. “Hubbard’s code,” I said.

  “What about it?” Tony asked.

  “Can you patch it?”

  “You mean, close the hole in the interpolator?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure,” Tony said. “Now that I know it’s there, closing it up’s not a problem.”

  “Can you do more than that?” I asked.

  “Are you going to pay me to do more than that?”

  I grinned. “Yes, Tony,” I said. “There is payment involved.”

  “Then I can do whatever you need me to do,” he said. “Hubbard’s good, but I don’t suck either.”

  “What do you have planned?” Vann asked me.

  “So far we’ve been a step behind Hubbard on everything,” I said.

  “That’s an accurate assessment,” Vann said. “Are we going to try to get ahead of him?”

  “We don’t have to get ahead of him,” I said. “But I want us to arrive at the same time.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Vann asked.

  “Well,” I said. “As our f
riend Trinh would say, it might require you to be a little sloppy.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  AT ELEVEN FIFTEEN I called Klah Redhouse and asked for a meeting with him, his boss, the speaker, and the president of the Navajo Nation, to catch them up on the latest with Johnny Sani and Bruce Skow. The meeting happened at noon.

  They were not pleased with my report. Not for how I’d been doing my job, which was not in dispute, but that two of their own had been victimized.

  “You are working on this,” President Becenti said, in a manner that was not a question.

  “Yes,” I said. “Johnny Sani and Bruce Skow will have justice. That is my word to you.” I waited.

  “What is it?” Becenti said.

  “You said yesterday that anything you could do to help, you would,” I said.

  “Yes,” Becenti said.

  “Did you mean that only within the parameters of the investigation, or would it extend further than that?”

  Becenti looked at me doubtfully. “What do you mean?” he said.

  “There’s justice, and then there’s sticking a knife in someone’s ribs,” I said. “The justice will come no matter what. Like I said, you already have my word on that. But the knife-sticking may come with an extra added benefit to the Navajo Nation.”

  Becenti looked at the speaker and the police captain, and then back at me. “Tell us more,” he said.

  I glanced over at Redhouse as I spoke. He was smiling.

  * * *

  At one thirty I was at my parents’ house, sitting with my dad in the trophy room. He was in a bathrobe and had a tumbler of scotch, neat, dangling from one of his long, large hands.

  “How you doing, Dad?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “Last night someone broke into my house to kill my kid, I killed him with a shotgun, and now I’m hiding out in my trophy room because it’s one of the only rooms in the house that photographers outside don’t have a clear shot into. I’m doing great.”

  “What did the police say about the shooting?” I asked.

  “The sheriff came by this morning and assured me that as far as he and his department are concerned, the shooting was justified and no charges are coming and that they’ll be returning my shotgun to me later today,” Dad said.

  “That’s good to hear,” I said.

  “That’s what I said, too,” Dad said. “They also said the FBI came for the man’s body this morning. Does that have anything to do with you?”

  “It does,” I said. “If anyone asks, the fact that you were about to run for the Senate meant that we had an interest in discovering whether the attacker had any ties with known hate or terrorism groups.”

  “But it’s not really about that at all, is it?”

  “I’ll answer that for you, Dad, but you have to tell me you’re ready to hear it.”

  “Jesus, Chris,” Dad said. “Someone tried to kill you last night in our house. If you don’t tell me why, I might strangle you myself.”

  So I told Dad the entire story, up to my morning visit to the Navajo Nation.

  After I finished, Dad said nothing. Then he drained his scotch, said, “I need a refill,” and stepped out into the gun room. When he came back in he had considerably more than two fingers of scotch in the tumbler.

  “You might want to ease back, there, Dad,” I said.

  “Chris, it’s a miracle I didn’t just bring in the bottle with a straw,” he said. He took a sip. “Motherfucker was in my house three nights ago,” he said, of Hubbard. “In this room. Acting all chummy.”

  “To be fair, three nights ago I don’t think he had planned to have me killed,” I said. “Pretty sure that came after.”

  Dad choked on his scotch on that one. I patted him on the back until he stopped coughing.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Dad said, and waved me off. He set down his drink and looked at me.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Tell me what I should do,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that son of a bitch tried to kill you,” Dad said, loudly, forcefully. “My only child. My flesh and blood. Tell me what to do, Chris. If you told me to shoot him, I would go do it right now.”

  “Please don’t,” I said.

  “Stab him,” Dad said. “Drown him. Run him over with my truck.”

  “They are all tempting,” I said. “But none of those is a good idea.”

  “Then tell me,” Dad said. “Tell me what I can do.”

  “Before I do,” I said. “Let me ask. Senate?”

  “Oh. Well. That,” Dad said, and reached for his scotch. I picked it up and moved it out of his reach. He looked at me quizzically, but accepted it and sat back. “William came over this morning, first thing,” he said, referring to the state party chairman. “He was all concern and sympathy and told me how much he admired me standing up for my home and family, and somehow all that puffery ended up with me being told that there’s no way the party could support me this election cycle. And perhaps it was just me, but I think there was the implication I wouldn’t be supported in any election cycle that might come up.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Dad shrugged. “It is what it is, kid,” he said. “It saves me the trouble of pretending to be nice to a bunch of assholes I never really liked.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “So. Dad. I need to you do something for me.”

  “Yeah?” Dad said. “And what is that, Chris?”

  “I need you to do a business deal,” I said.

  Dad furrowed his brow at me. “How did we get to a business deal?” he asked. “I thought we were talking revenge and politics.”

  “We still are,” I said. “And the way it will get done is through a business deal.”

  “With whom?” Dad asked.

  “With the Navajo, Dad,” I said.

  Dad sat up, uncomfortable. “I know you’ve been busy,” he said. “But I just shot one of their people last night. I don’t think they’ll want to do business with me today.”

  “No one blames you for it.”

  “I blame me for it,” Dad said.

  “You didn’t shoot him because he was Navajo,” I said. “You shot him because he was about to shoot me. He wasn’t there because he was a bad man. He was there because bad men were using him.”

  “Which means I shot an innocent man,” Dad said.

  “You did,” I said. “And I’m sorry about that, Dad. But you didn’t kill him. Lucas Hubbard did. He just used you to do it. And if you hadn’t, it would be me who was dead.”

  Dad put his head in his hands. I let him take a moment.

  “Bruce Skow was innocent,” I said. “Johnny Sani was innocent. Neither of them are coming back. But I have a way you can punish the person responsible for both of their deaths. You’ll also get to help out a lot of people in the Navajo Nation in the bargain. Something really good can come out of this thing. You just have to do what you already do better than anyone else. Do some business.”

  “What kind of business are we talking about here?”

  “Real estate,” I said. “Sort of.”

  * * *

  Three thirty, and I was with Jim Buchold, in his home office. “We’re tearing down both buildings,” he said, of Loudoun Pharma campus. “Well. We’re tearing down the office building, which the Loudoun County inspectors tell me is mostly cracked off its foundation. The labs are already gone. We’re just clearing the rubble for that.”

  “What’s going to happen to Loudoun Pharma?” I asked.

  “In the short run, tomorrow I’m going to a memorial for our janitors,” Buchold said. “All six of them at the same time. They were all each other’s friends. It makes sense to do it that way. Then on Monday I’m laying off everyone in the company and then taking bids for buyers.”

  I cocked my head at that. “Someone wants to buy Loudoun Pharma?” I asked.

  “We have a
number of valuable patents and we were able to retrieve a good amount of our current research, some of which can probably be reconstructed,” Buchold said. “And if whoever buys the company hires our researchers, there’s a chance they’ll reconstruct it faster. And we still have our government contracts, although I’m having our lawyers go through those contracts now to make sure they can’t be withdrawn because of terrorism.”

  “Then why sell at all?” I asked.

  “Because I’m done,” Buchold said. “I put twenty years into this company and then it all went up in a single night. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “I don’t.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Buchold said. “You can’t know. I didn’t know until someone took two decades of my life and turned it into a pile of rubble. I think about trying to build it back up from nothing and all it does is make me feel tired. So, no. Time for me and Rick to retire to the Outer Banks, get a beach house, and run corgis up and down the sand until they collapse.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said.

  “It’ll be great,” Buchold said. “For the first week. After that I’ll have to figure out what to do with myself.”

  “The night of my dad’s party, you were talking about the therapies you were developing to unlock people from Haden’s,” I said.

  “I remember I dragged you into the argument,” Buchold said. “Rick gave me crap for that yesterday when he remembered it. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I remember that night you also mentioned the drug you were developing.”

  “Neuroulease.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “How far along were you with it?”

  “You mean, how long until Neuroulease was on the market?”

  “Yes.”

  “We were feeling optimistic that we’d have enough progress on the drug within the year to apply for clinical trials,” Buchold said. “And if those showed promise we were pretty much already guaranteed a fast track at the FDA for approval. You have four and a half million people suffering from lock in. Especially now that Abrams-Kettering’s on the books, the sooner we can unlock them, the better.”