“No,” he says, shaking his head. “These people could sweep you up off the street at a moment’s notice if they wanted to. I mean, the drones, the contact lenses. If it was what they wanted, you’d be in one of their labs for the rest of your life. And I don’t mean to be harsh, but as of a few days ago, there wouldn’t have been a lot of people missing you.”

A chill goes through her, and it’s not just from the ocean wind ripping through the half-open window. It’s because what he said was the truth.

“So why not?” she asks. “Why not just kidnap me and treat me like a lab rat? Why bail out my hometown?”

“Well, for starters, maybe they’re not total monsters.”

“Like Dylan you mean?”

“Yes. And if they bring you in, you become their property, which means you become their problem. If they leave you out in the field, there’s distance between them and what Dylan’s done.”

“OK. And the resort means what?”

“A nice gesture, perhaps. Or a peace offering from the good cop in the relationship.”

“A peace offering that costs millions.”

“Which is chump change to them. But not to you.”

“And that means what?”

“They’ve watched you for days now. It’s clear you’re not going to the police or the press. You’ve shown what you can do to only a small circle of friends. So they’re confident you’re going to do what Dylan’s asked. So now they’re investing in you.”

“Maybe. Or they’re just flexing their muscles. Showing me I can never outrun them.”

She can tell from the way he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel that he doesn’t agree. But he keeps his mouth shut.

That’s progress, she guesses.

“The point, Charley, is that I don’t think you’re being ganged up on. I think you’re in the middle. And that’s a better place to be.”

As he does his fake patrol through town, the words stuck in the middle roll back and forth through her mind.

Is it really better? Of course it is. Anything that diminishes Dylan’s power is a good thing. Had he gone rogue? Was that what their sessions in Scarlet were about? He was preparing to test a drug on her that wasn’t even his?

Take it that chat didn’t go well?

Another text from Marty; this one reminds her of the one technological limitation of her mysterious new gift—no audio. For them, it’s a limitation. For her, it’s a perk.

On our way back now, she answers. I no longer want to strangle him.

Marty’s waiting for them on the front deck when they pull up.

She figures Luke will follow her inside if she just doesn’t say anything, but when she steps from the cruiser, he doesn’t unbuckle his seat belt.

“I better check in back at the station.” If there were any more expectation in his stare, he’d be a kid on Christmas Eve.

“What time do you get off?” she asks.

“Seven.”

“Marty’s grilling.”

“He any good?”

“Come back after you get off and find out.”

His smile fades. “Does this mean I’m back in?”

“It means you should come eat with us.”

“Fair enough,” he says.

She watches him pull away.

“You got an extra steak?” she calls out to Marty, who she’s pretty sure heard the whole exchange from where he’s standing, hands braced against the deck rail.

“I always get extra.”

“Good.”

“You sure you’ve forgiven him, or are you inviting him to dinner because you like him in that uniform?”

“He’s smart,” she says as she walks up onto the deck. The cruiser’s taillights round the last visible bend in the road. “And he says the reason he freaked out the other night is because he was worried about me.”

“Men always say that kinda shit when they fuck up,” Marty growls.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Yep.”

“You got a steak for him or not?” she asks.

“Sure thing.”

“His uniform does nothing for me, by the way.” She heads inside before he can see the lie in her eyes.

33

Once Cole’s made the rounds of the postpresentation cocktail reception, smiling, nodding, chitchatting with those board members present, he slips back upstairs.

He’s one of the first. The carpeted hallways are empty; most of the glass office doors are closed. It’s no surprise his administrative staff is using the presentation as a chance to unwind for a bit, which, at a company like Graydon, means drinking one and a half cocktails out of plastic cups while deigning to make small talk with a coworker who might have a less advanced degree than you.

Inside his locked desk drawer is the personal laptop he’s set up for what may or may not become Phase II of Project Bluebird. He pulls it out, enters his password, and blacks out his soaring windows with the press of a button.

There’s an e-mail from Dylan, which surprises him. He knows the package was received at four o’clock that afternoon, but he expected the guy not to let him know out of mere defiance.

From his pocket, he pulls out the digital key Julia Crispin provided him with, uses the current code to log in to the portal for both feeds.

If one screen is black, he can use the archive link underneath it to access the most recent four hours of footage. But the screen for DC—Dylan Cody—is black and there’s no link below. So Dylan received the package, but he hasn’t activated his TruGlass yet. Maybe defiance is still in play.

CR’s also black, but in her case, there’s archived footage.

He watches her slide the lenses in, takes in the startled expressions of the men with her, the cop, Luke Prescott, and the long-haired contractor with the dishonorable discharge from the marines and the brief stint in jail for aggravated assault, Martin Cahill. If there’s an odder crew out there, they’re probably on a sitcom. The lack of audio is frustrating, but he’s still stunned by how clear the images are. A few notches below high-definition TV.

Charlotte and the cop head outside, get into the guy’s sheriff’s cruiser, drive through that little town, then into the mountains.

Could they have taken off in search of a target that soon?

No way, he thinks.

When they park on the side of Pacific Coast Highway, he realizes they must be testing the thing’s range. Based on their expressions, they’re as impressed as he is.

The voyeurism of it all is distracting, and he finds himself enamored by the fairly ordinary sight of them descending a set of stone steps to a windswept, rugged beach below; he’s so enamored, he misses Dylan’s feed coming to life, until the word live pops up next to a green dot just underneath his screen.

At first he’s not sure what’s he’s watching in the second panel.

Blurs of movement. Maybe it’s the packaging being torn away.

A black T-shirt hits tiled floor next to bare feet.

A hand turns a shower knob.

The image seems to jerk a little.

Blinks, Cole realizes. Lots of them. Dylan must be getting used to the way the things sit in his eyes.

Suddenly Dylan’s staring right back at him, through a small mirror that’s about to fog. He douses his head under the shower’s spray, makes a kissy face and sleepy eyes. Then he looks down, giving Cole a perfect view of the water sluicing down his muscular body as he grabs his cock and balls from below and starts soaping them like a porn star.

Cole slams the screen of his laptop shut, cursing under his breath.

When he calls Ed Baker, his director of security, the man answers after one ring.

“How’s our girl?” Cole asks.

“Had to bring the microdrones down at dusk, but ground teams A and B both have eyes on Cahill’s trailer.”

“She inside?”

“Nope. And she’s got guests.”

“Outside?”

“Yep. It’s a cookout.”

Is Ed joking?

The sustained silence tells him that’s not the case. The man’s tone is certainly frostier than usual; it has been since they flew to meet Dylan in Arizona. If Ed had his way, they’d clear the warehouse of all the surveillance equipment tracking Charlotte Rowe and use the space to waterboard Dylan into revealing whether or not he’s altered Zypraxon’s formula.

Note to file: don’t put Ed Baker and Julia Crispin in the same room together. He might have an insurrection on his hands that ends with Dylan’s balls being electrocuted.

“So that’s what she was planning?” Cole finally asks. “A cookout?”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say no.”

“Then what the hell is she doing?”

“Everybody needs downtime.”

“She’s had two days of it. And she’s the one who just told us she’s planning something. Was she messing with us?”

“We need to find out more about what Dylan said to her during that call,” Ed offers. “Whatever it was, it made her destroy that disposable phone.”

“Dylan claims he gave us a full account of his call.”

“We can’t know that for sure. It’s reckless, letting him talk to her.”

“We’ve got better eyes on him now. He just activated his TruGlass.”

“Yeah. About that.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s showering.”

“Sort of. Look, we don’t know how much he’s told this girl, and we can’t let him be the only one communicating with her.”