Prototype Page 4

  The door on the side of the house was unimpressive, a plain white metal with a numbered keypad located just above the doorknob. I felt the man’s arm brush past me and push several numbers on the keypad.

  The door popped unlocked and he pulled it open before he shoved me through and slammed the door. I turned around and saw I was alone.

  The room was small, a dungeon with white walls. It had no character, no color. When an unmarked door on the other side of the room swung open, my heart leapt into my throat. My pulse hammered fiercely through my veins as I looked at him. I couldn’t tell if it was from fear or passion. Maybe a little of both. My eyes recorded Marshall from his feet to his head, stalling at his eyes. He slowly entered the cold sterile room; the door shut firmly behind him.

  “Are you okay, Lauren?” he asked in a low solemn tone. His intrinsic steely eyes lulled across my body. I straightened up and deflected the trance he knowingly could put me under. It was time to embody the years of experience and training to disconnect from him.

  “I’m fine.” I turned away, dragging my confidence behind me. Marshall swiftly caught my forearm and swung me around; anger smoldered in his eyes.

  “I want to know what you’ve done!” he barked, “ever since you left my house, people have been dying! What do you know?” He clutched my arm tighter, but I was able to jerk out of his grasp.

  “I was about to ask you the same question!”

  He took a step toward me, but I shuffled back. Instantly, Marshall’s strained eyes filled with worry, his body saddled with hesitancy.

  “You? Wait … you don’t think it was me?”

  “I don’t know what to believe!” I barked, pulling my face out of his clutch. I shuffled backward until I was against the wall and had nowhere else to go. I closed my eyes, pushing my fears from my mind.

  “What was my mission?” I demanded.

  “Test the prototype,” he said shaking his head. I glared deep into his eyes and asked again.

  “Bullshit, Marshall! What in the hell was my mission?”

  Silence filled the space between us; pushing back with his words, he answered.

  “Does it matter now? It won’t change anything … it won’t bring them back.”

  I grabbed the words he spat at me and masterfully warped them into the confidence I needed to keep pressing.

  “I don’t care, I want to know what was I suppose to do. What was my mission? You owe me that, Marshall. I haven’t asked for anything!” I pushed my body forward as my breath forced its way into my lungs. I felt like I was standing over him even though he towered above me. He dropped his eyes from my glare and began to speak.

  “It was supposed to be simple, Lauren. We were going to fly to California, spend a couple of days and be back in D.C. before anyone knew we were gone. You would’ve been our person on the inside. Roger would remain here in D.C. and be the one to deliver the intelligence we needed to make the switch. I was going to be the one to keep—” he paused, “well, let’s just say some very influential people at bay.” He seemed to glow as he spoke. “George would be at the airport—in case we encountered any problems.” He stopped and looked at me.

  I focused on his eyes, and in my head I named all the people he rambled off in his explanation. He had only named four of the five on the list.

  “What about Sam? What was she suppose to do?”

  He gave me a puzzled look, like he didn’t understand.

  “Sam? Sam who?” he questioned.

  I took a deep deliberate breath and repeated, “Samantha Wilkins.”

  My head started to shuffle images as I tried to put together my own thoughts. Her name was on that sheet of paper taped into the old book from his library. She knew who Marshall was when I called her. Was Roger double-dealing between Marshall and Sam? What have I done? She knows that I’m here. She has the prototype in her head. She will have complete information on all of us. If Marshall is as innocent as he leads on, I might have just signed away both of our lives!

  My face must have read like a horror story. Before I could bring my mind back into the little white room, Marshall grabbed my arms and shook me.

  “Lauren, what do you know? You need to tell me now,” he demanded.

  “I don’t know; she was in the list of names, people who have the proto—she had a checkmark by her name,” I babbled.

  He pulled me to the chairs, sat me down and looked straight into my eyes, like he was willing the information from my mind.

  “What list of names … Lauren, what list of names?” I melted at once; the tables had turned; now I was answering the questions he needed to know.

  “Roger had a list of names … people who had the prototype implanted in their heads.” The words poured out of me; I was a sieve and he knew it. He knew he still held a power over me that flared when I was weak.

  “We’re all on it … even you!” I said. He shifted and knelt in front of me.

  “Where’s this list?” he asked softly. When I didn’t answer, he repeated his question, narrowing his eyes.

  “Where’s the list?”

  There was no way I was going to tell him what else was on the paper. If he knew Roger had extensive notes on the capabilities of the prototype, he would’ve sold the technology already. There was no way I could let Roger’s notes ever be seen by anyone.

  “It’s gone … I burnt it … when I found out Roger was murdered. I followed protocol for if we had evidence that we didn’t want found,” I methodically lied.

  As shocked as I was about his reaction, that little piece of paper would be my lifeline and I sure wasn’t ready to give it up that easily. I still didn’t know if I could trust anyone, especially Marshall.

  He stood planted and determinately in front of me. “My driver will take you to your car.” At this point he had lifted me from the chair with nominal effort and continued speaking. “Go home and get some rest.” I tried to interrupt, but he wouldn’t have it. “I am taking you to the airport in the morning. Pack for California. You need to get out of town for a couple of weeks, just long enough for the dust to settle. When I’ve taken care of the issues here, I’ll meet you in California.”

  I shook my head and allowed him to pull me to the door. It was important that Marshall didn’t know I had Roger’s paper in my back pocket or a video recording of him in my head. Just like Doctor Finway said in his last words to me. Don’t trust anyone.

  The limousine pulled away without waiting for me to fumble for my keys. Fortunately, working a car lock open in the dark was just another pitiful challenge I mastered years ago. I pulled the door opened, slid in and had the car running in no time. It felt like eons ago when I was in the car driving to escape Marshall’s house. Looking down at my speedometer out of habit, I saw that my eye was still recording. I couldn’t believe how fast I became accustomed to the graphics that sat in the corners of my vision. Mumbling stop recording caused it to disappear. I just wanted to get home, lock my door and isolate myself in my room so I could pull the small paper from my pocket. It was necessary to understand what Roger had written on that page.

  Twenty-five minutes later I was home. Making my way to the kitchen, I grabbed a glass of water, pulled my laptop off my dining room table and headed to my bedroom. I reached into my back pocket, took a deep breath and pulled out the paper I had crumpled earlier. I pushed it flat on my desk and studied the letters and numbers that made up words.

  I kept scanning the paper, intrigued by what Roger scribbled on the paper. If this is true, he was the first person with this thing implanted in his head. I kept reading:

  Electrodes enhance body strength, for how long? Physical Strength + mental Access= total control. Mandatory adjustment to access before other subjects tested.

  That line plucked at my thoughts. What was he doing? Did he make an adjustment before I had my biosensor implanted?

  I concentrated on the file pathway. Instantly, it popped up and blocked my vision. The adjustment was never made, but why?
As I dug deeper into the encrypted file, a map of the United States popped up; little pinprick spots lit up covering the map with heavy concentrations on both coasts and along the borders of Canada and Mexico. What was I seeing? What did these bright tiny lights symbolize? I focused on a random pinprick and a textbox burst open with some person’s information.

  JONATHAN CAMERON REYES

  SS#:547-330-2547

  5’11”/EYES:BRN/HAIR:BRN

  LOC:BALT.MD/C.O.D:CANCER

  10/18/1965 – 12/17/2019

  Who is this? My eyes scanned his information, frozen on the dates of his life span. It was strange; whoever input this data projected the date of his death six years into the future.

  Terror plucked at my soul as I focused on another spot on the map; my heart thundered in my chest as the information scorched my vision.

  GEORGE EUGENE FINWAY, M.D.

  SS#:320-099-5666

  6’2”/EYES:BLUE/HAIR:BLK

  LOC:WASH.DC/C.O.D:SUICIDE

  04/15/1959-11/30/2013

  It was today’s date. A cold rush shivered down my spine. The cause of death was registered as a suicide. It was no suicide. Doctor Finway was murdered; I heard it with my own ears.

  My chest tightened with every thunderous pump of my heart. I could feel that there was something ominous, something … very dangerous about what I was seeing.

  I zoomed in on the file name at the top of the map—Persons of Interest.

  What the hell was this … and what if I was one?

  I scanned the pinpricks near the D.C. area and whispered, “Lauren Jean Matthews.”

  My eyes burning from not blinking as I struggled to read the words in the textbox.

  LAUREN JEAN MATTHEWS

  SS#:654-23-1970

  5’7”/EYES:GREEN/HAIR:BLN

  4/23/1978-12/06/2013

  LOC:WASH.DC/C.O.D:APHIXIATION

  It was that simple; in seven days I would be dead.

  I thought about Marshall and a textbox with his name popped up from the D.C. area, cascading over mine. His textbox was different; under his name was an image of a locked padlock and the words “ACCESS DENIED,” in red capital letters.

  “What?” I questioned aloud.

  Next, I mumbled Roger Clarke. His textbox appeared and oddly enough his also had a locked padlock image and the red flashing words, “ACCESS DENIED”. I wish I could find out what he had to protect so fervently, even in his death? I needed to get out of my head and into something separate from myself, so I grabbed my laptop and carelessly set it at the foot of my bed. Maybe I’ll find something that will unlock the maze that’s tangled my thoughts. I started typing Roger’s full name when an instant message appeared on my computer screen. It was my mother, Carolyn Jean Wilson. A person whose attempt to understand social media went no further than an abandoned Facebook page and AOL’s instant message account. She is a real estate lawyer that knows nothing about my life with the CIA. I keep waiting for the day when she figures out that I don’t sell computers.

  Hey sweetie, miss U!

  Are you dating anyone yet?

  Saw U online.

  Tried to call—your phone is disconnected.

  What’s wrong? Do you need $? <3

  I visualized her and how she always looked when she worried. Her green eyes peppered with specks of dark brown would water and shrink. The laugh lines that outlined her thin lips would weigh heavy and pull down her smile. The crease that was permanently carved between her eyebrows would deepen and she would anxiously pull back her shoulder length, ash-brown hair and continually tuck it behind her ears. My mom had always been that easy to read.

  I will never forget the day she had called to me from downstairs.

  “Lauren, your father and I have to speak to you.” She had forced out the words as her teeth had caught her lower lip.

  I had followed her to the dining room where my father had been sitting with his hands clasped strongly in front of him and he had been staring down at the floor. When he looked up at me, I remember seeing a broken man. I’ll never forget how his dark hazel eyes had been sunken and swollen with red unforgiving puffy circles. His long thin eyelashes had been clumped together with the remnants of his tears. His cheeks were gaunt and his pale face had hung hopelessly.

  “Hi, honey bunny,” he said in a low pathetic voice.

  I didn’t know whether I should have hugged him or should have run away. Mom had put her hand on the small of my back and made sure I sat down at the table. I remembered obeying and she had followed.

  “Honey,” she said as she looked in my eyes before she continued, “Your father is going to … we’ve decided to … I need—”

  She had been struggling to try to find the best way to tell me that she and dad had decided to get a divorce. I had never seen my mom fumble her words like that before.

  My dad looked at me from across the table.

  “I’m sorry, Lauren. Mom and I just couldn’t make it work.” Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

  I couldn’t have helped myself, I had followed him in his pain. This had been the only time in my entire life I had ever seen my father cry. I had glanced over to my mom; tears were streaming down her cheeks. My heart desperately hammered in my chest, before it dropped into my gut, and I felt like I was going to heave. That had been the first time in my life I felt defeated, annihilated, and alone. Sadly enough, it wouldn’t be the last.

  Another sentence came up from my mother as it chimed the familiar tone ripping me from my painful memories.

  Lauren, I know you’re online, answer me!

  I typed back as fast as I could.

  Hi mom, I am fine!

  I miss U too. I MIGHT be coming out see U soon.

  I have some work I have to do first.

  I will call U, K <3 me

  I pressed the send button on the screen and a short moment later she wrote back.

  Get your phone checked—call me tomorrow!

  Love U <3 Mom

  I refocused and finished typing Roger Clarke on my laptop when I remembered that my pinprick textbox was still open. I was going to be killed in cold blood in seven days. I peered at the clock at the bottom of the screen, 12:28am. Actually, I was going to be dead in six.

  The stress of the day won the war between the fears of my death and trying to break Roger’s access code; my eyes shut heavy and they didn’t rebound open. I remembered the conversation I had with Marshall earlier in the day.

  You need to pack for California; I will pick you up in the morning and when I have taken care of the issues here in D.C., I’ll join you.

  His words floated into my head as I drifted off.

  I was floating in dilapidated dinghy on a raging sea. Torrent waves thrashing me back and forth, the water flooding over the sides; I was suffocating. Drowning in the fear of my death, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t open my eyes, I couldn’t scream out to save my life. I was dying … little by little I was slipping away. Suddenly, a faint voice came at me from the middle of nowhere …“Lauren, come to me, I will save you … don’t be afraid. Open your eyes.” I struggled to see, opening my eyes as wide as I could, I looked out across the stormy sea and saw Marshall walking toward the boat, his feet cresting the sea, water licking at his ankles, his hands were spread wide. “I can’t breathe, I am suffocating, I can’t … I need help … I’m dying, Marshall, I’m dying.” I screamed at him as I pulled at my throat. “You aren’t dying, you are living,” Marshall answered as he stood at the edge of my boat still holding his hands out to me. “I’m dead! That’s it Marshall, you are here to take me to hell!”

  “Lauren, you’re not dead. You’re having a nightmare … Lauren, wake up!” I heard Marshall say as his body disappeared from the sea. I opened my eyes, gasping for air, breathing again, air burning as it filled my lungs.

  “Lauren … You are here, at home,” Marshall assured me, holding my face in his hands.

  “I was dying!”

  “Well, you d
idn’t die … and we need to go. I need to get you to California. Where are your bags?” he asked looking around.

  “Um—well—I’ll pack now, just enough for a week, right?” I asked him. I was still discombobulated from my nightmare.

  I shuffled out of my bed, realizing I was in the same clothes I wore yesterday; I didn’t have time to be embarrassed. I knew the best thing I could do was to collect up and pack some essentials, including the paper that held Roger’s notes about the computer imbedded in my head. I looked over to the desk where I remembered flattening it out last night and I froze in my tracks, it wasn’t there. I tried to think about moving it last night but I couldn’t remember taking the paper from my desk. I needed to make sure I had that paper. I needed it with me in California.

  “Are you okay, Lauren?” Marshall asked.

  “Yeah, I just need to find something I had with me when I came home last night.” After the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

  “Are you looking for this?” He held up the same paper I took from the old book in his library, the paper that held the file pathway that granted access the encrypted government file that nobody, not even Marshall, should have access to. Yes, the same paper I told Marshall that I burned, that’s what I was looking for. Our eyes met, and I knew he was furious.

  “Lauren, why did you lie to me? Why wouldn’t you tell me the truth?—you never burnt this.” He was angry; his eyes narrowed and darkened. He wasn’t the same man from my dreams.

  I had to think carefully before I spoke. Now more than ever, I had to make sure I said the right words. I took a huge gulp of air and tried to remain calm.

  “Marshall, you can’t honestly tell me that you thought that I’d burned that paper—”

  “Good or bad, you should have come to me—I could’ve helped you—I could have protected you! Now I have—” He stopped mid sentence.